Fade
by Menthol Pixie
Summary: Sam's sick, Dean's panicking and everything's about to go to hell. Sam needs a whole new life, one where his last name isn't Winchester because Winchesters are cursed.
1. Chapter 1

**Fade**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sam and Dean. But, boy, if I did…**

**A/N: Okay, so here's the first chapter of the longer story I promised. I've finished the first daft and am half way through the second so I figured this would be a good time to start posting. I know a few of you have me on Author Alert and I didn't want to keep you waiting. Hope you enjoy!**

**Set early in Season Two.**

**~Menthol Pixie**

**Chapter One**

Sam burned with fever for three days.

He woke to a lecture from a thoroughly frazzled Dean about cleaning and disinfecting cuts and scrapes, which Sam thought was rather unfair because, first of all, he felt like crap and didn't feel up to arguing, and second, he _had_ cleaned the cut in question. Dean had watched him do it, and it wasn't his fault that it had gotten infected.

Anyway, three days of delirium was punishment enough. He could really do without Dean stomping around the motel room, even if he knew that Dean's anger was fueled by worry.

The shower was a welcome escape. Sam leant against the tiled wall, wearily washing the scent of sickness from his body. God, he felt like he'd just come out of a coma or something, all fuzzy and not quite there. The shower was good though. He simply stood, letting the water cascade over him, playing over the bruises that seemed to cover him.

Weird, he hadn't thought the poltergeist had knocked him around that much. It had been a fairly simple banishment and if the cut on his arm from some flying glass hadn't flared up with infection they would probably be halfway through their next case by now. No wonder Dean was going stir crazy.

Sighing, Sam turned off the water and readied himself for the day.

Dean was sitting at the wobbly motel table when Sam stepped into the room, toweling his hair, leaning over the laptop with a cup of coffee in his hand. Sam noticed with relief, and a lot of gratitude, the second cup of coffee sitting waiting for him. Caffeine, just what he needed. He felt sluggish, his motor functions not entirely in sync with his brains commands.

"Don't spill that on the keys," he warned, picking up his cup as he slid into the seat. _Thanks_.

Dean ignored him. _No problem_.

"I got one," he said instead, turning the screen to face Sam.

The first thing Sam saw was a picture of a young girl, maybe in her twenties, smiling for the camera, beautiful, not a care in the world, happy. And under the photo was an article about her murder.

Dean shuffled round so that he could see the screen too and clicked on a few pop-ups, articles of murders, all by strangulation, all in the same month the girl had died.

"Haunting. Should be an easy salt and burn."

Sam heard the silent '_You up for it?_' in Dean's words and nodded. He was tired, drained from three days of hallucinations and fire, but he was a Winchester, and Winchester's sucked it up and dealt with it.

He definitely needed more coffee though.

**~~~~0000~~~~~**

It seemed that the ghost of Valerie Wright didn't have time to bother with two young men digging up her grave. Probably too busy scaring the bejesus out of people.

It was a simple case. Two days drive, the girl's burial plot hadn't been hard to locate and halfway through digging she had still failed to show. Piece of cake.

It didn't deter Dean from his vigilance though. It was difficult, digging while keeping an eye on Sammy, while watching out for angry spirits but Dean was practiced and he didn't miss it when Sam's digging slowed.

He threw a shovel full of dirt over his shoulder. "Take a break," he nudged, wiping sweat from his brow

Sam paused, leaning back against the wall of their hole. He took a few deep breaths. "Nah, I'm okay. May as well get this over with."

Dean planted his shovel and leant on it. Damn stubborn little brothers.

"Dude, three days ago I was ready to take you to hospital. I've got this one, Sammy. Go sit down."

"It's Sam," Sam muttered, but he climbed out of the hole without further argument, sinking down next to it and picking up the shot gun.

Kid must've been feeling pretty crap to give in so easily. Dean eyed him for a moment, wondering if perhaps they should have waited another couple of days before going back to the hunt, but this simply earned him an eye roll so he shrugged it off and resumed his digging. Scoop toss, scoop toss, until finally he scooped and hit something solid. Scoop thump.

"Yahtzee," he muttered to himself, quickly clearing away the remaining dirt until he could smash through the coffin lid. He had just dragged himself up to the lip of the grave, already fantasizing about a long, hot shower and bed, when Sam yelled for him to drop.

In accordance to years of training, and practice, Dean did just that. He released the edge of the hole and let himself drop down into the smashed open casket. He heard, and felt, bones crunch beneath his steel-capped boots, just before a shotgun blast left his ears ringing.

Moments later, Sam appeared above him, reaching a hand down to him.

"Come on, before she comes back."

Dean accepted the hand and hauled himself up.

"You alright?" he asked, sparing Sam a quick glance as he pulled the salt from the duffle bag.

Sam looked pale in the moonlight. The break from digging had seemingly done nothing to cure his shakiness, but he held the shotgun steady, eyes alert and watchful.

"Yeah," he answered unconvincingly.

Definitely having a few days break after this one.

Dean liberally sprinkled salt over the decaying corpse. He was reaching for the lighter fluid when he saw her.

Faded violet dress, long dark hair falling in soft ringlets down her back, Valerie Wright was quite a looker, in a psychopathic spirit kind of way. Dean didn't even have time to shout a warning before Sam suddenly wasn't next to him anymore but flying through the air and skidding to a halt just short of a tombstone.

Dean grabbed for the lighter fluid but that too found itself airborne, out of his reach. Cursing, Dean spun, and found himself face to face with an extremely pissed off dead chick. Next thing he knew, he was a good twenty feet away from the dug up grave, wincing and blinking blood out of his eyes.

He'd made it to his knees when ice-cold hands wrapped themselves around his throat, pulling him upwards and suddenly there was no air. Valerie loomed in front of his face, her eyes as dark as the bruises around her neck as she played out her murder once again.

Dean could hear himself making choking, gasping noises, before the rush of blood pounding in his ears drowned even that out. He scrabbled frantically at the ghostly hands but to no avail. His vision had just begun to gray around the edges, white spots dancing in front of his eyes, when Valerie suddenly reared back, dropping him to the ground as she exploded in a blaze of brilliant white light.

Dean fell to his hands and knees, welcoming the rush of fresh air to his lungs. Gah, that hurt. Maybe he should ease up on teasing Sammy about his choking fetish. Speaking of Sam…

Dean looked up, eyes searching for his younger brother. They found him by the grave, silhouetted by the burning corpse. He opened his mouth to croak out a thanks, when Sam swayed, staggering slightly, then crumpled to the ground.

**~~~~0000~~~~**

For a moment Sam thought that he was back in the motel room, waking from his feverish unconsciousness. Damn, these beds were hard.

"Saaamm?" Dean's voice came as if underwater.

_No, let me sleep._

Sam moved to bury his face in the pillow, but… there was no pillow, and he could feel a breeze on his face. Were these beds made of dirt?

He forced his eyes open and the world did a full 360. Nausea crawled out of his stomach and up his throat and he clenched his eyes back shut, waiting and breathing until it subsided.

"Sam?" came Dean's voice again. It sounded better now, not so murky and far away, but heavy with worry. What the hell was going on?

Sam carefully opened his eyes again, relieved that the world had slowed its spinning. He blinked up at the blurry face of his brother.

"Hey, you with me?"

Sam nodded slightly, just as much as he dared.

"Wha' happen'd?" he asked, letting his eyes search their surroundings. Oh, right. Graveyard. Salt and burn. He tried to push himself up but Dean's hand on his chest gently but forcefully held him down.

"You passed out. Did you hit your head?"

Sam took a moment to process his brother's words, and then raised a hand to his head, brushing it through his hair, feeling for lumps or stickiness.

"Don't think so."

Then Dean was shining his little torch in his eyes, checking pupil reaction. Sam groaned as a headache flared up, then died down as he pushed Dean's arm away.

"'M 'kay."

Dean hardly looked convinced, and Sam couldn't really blame him. To be honest, sinking into the ground right now seemed like a better idea than dragging his body into a standing position, but admitting to that would only cause Dean to hover over-protectively for a few days, and anyway, Dean had enough to worry about, what with their father's death still recent enough to leave an ache in his chest whenever he thought about it.

So Sam pushed himself up on his elbows, gently testing his body's reaction to the change in altitude. Satisfied that he wasn't about to keel over, he accepted the hand Dean held out for him and let his older brother pull him to his feet.

"Can you make it to the car?"

Sam nodded, not wanting to risk opening his mouth. Maybe he had hit his head. This sure felt fairly similar to a concussion. He let Dean lead him to the Impala, feeling a rush of relief as he was guided onto the familiar leather seat. Sitting down felt like the best thing that had happened to him all day.

The relief was short lived, however, as his brain sped to catch him up on the evenings hunt. He jerked upright, ignoring his body's protests.

"Are you okay? The spirit, she was…"

Dean brushed him off with a nonchalant one-shoulder shrug. "I'm fine. Indestructible, remember?"

Sam eyed the forming bruises around Dean's neck.

"But…"

Dean shot him a look, "I'm good, Sam. Worry about yourself."

Sam frowned. "I'm okay."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Yeah, 'cause everyone who's okay faints."

"I didn't faint," Sam argued fruitlessly, "I just…"

"Fainted," Dean finished for him, before sending a sly grin his way, "Like a girl."

Sam gave up, leaning back against his seat and closing his eyes.

**~~~~0000~~~~**

Over the next few days, Sam… slept.

First, Dean was amused. The kid argues so hard that he's _"Fine, Dean!"_ and then sleeps for 14 hours straight, which is practically a world record if you're Sam Winchester, but as the days trudged on and the time between waking and crashing diminished until Sam was barely able to keep his eyes open for more than a few hours at a time, Dean sped past amused, stopped briefly at exasperated and then slammed into worry.

A week should have been long enough for his younger brother to recover from the infection, two should have had him climbing the walls in search of something to do rather than just sitting in a motel room, but instead of regaining strength and stamina, Sam lost more, getting worse instead of better.

The younger hunter was still dead to the world when Dean returned from his breakfast run, exactly two weeks and three days after they put Valerie Wright to rest, carrying bagels and two cups of coffee. Frowning at the sleeping figure, he dropped his load on the counter, taking his own coffee and bagel over to his bed and picking up the remote to flick the TV on, lowering the volume.

When Sam had still failed to rise after two re-runs of _The Simpsons_, Dean's coffee drained and Sam's own turned to cold sludge on the bench, Dean reluctantly slid off of his bed to shake his brother awake.

"Hey, rise and shine, Sammy."

Sam mumbled something incoherent, burying his face in the pillow.

The coffee churned unpleasantly in Dean's stomach. "Come on, Sam, it's almost midday. Gotta get up sometime."

"'M tired," came Sam's muffled voice.

Dean crouched down next to the bed, "I think it's time we took you to a doctor."

Sam moaned into the pillow, "Can't I just sleep?"

Dean clapped a hand on Sam's knee, "Nope, not a chance, Sammy-boy. Come on, get dressed."

With much grumbling and some curses that made Dean grin, even if they were directed at him, Sam finally emerged from his cocoon of blankets.

"You look like crap," Dean observed lightly, but it was true, Sammy wasn't looking so hot.

"Bite me," Sam groaned.

"Nah, might catch something."

It took an inordinate amount of time for Sam to drag himself out of bed and pull his clothes on. Dean watched closely, taking in the sluggish movements, the dark circles under his brother's eyes, despite the copious amount of sleep. He placed a hand briefly on Sam's forehead before Sam half-heartedly batted it away. Maybe a bit too hot. Yup, a trip to the doctors was definitely in order.

Dean was shrugging into his jacket when he paused, frowning down at Sam's bed.

"What's this?" he asked, moving in for a closer inspection. He carefully fingered the dark red marks on the sheets.

Sam, still sitting on the bed, looked down at them in weary puzzlement for a moment before a light went on and he turned his hand over to reveal a still seeping cut.

"From when Valerie threw me."

Dean narrowed his eyes, "I thought you said it didn't need stitches."

"It didn't," Sam said, prodding at the wound, "It was barely more than a scratch."

"So why's it still bleeding?" Dean asked. It came out almost like an accusation as he appraised the cut himself but Sam just shrugged apathetically.

"Must've bumped it or something."

"It should have healed by now."

Sam shrugged again. Still frowning, Dean let it go, dropping the stained sheets and turning back to his brother.

"You ready?"

Sam made an effort to stand but had barely cleared the bed before he sunk back down on it, bracing his hands on the mattress.

"Sam?" Dean was in front of him, kneeling to try and get a look at his face.

Sam shook his head. "Dizzy," he muttered, before taking a deep breath, raising his gaze to meet Dean's. "Help me?"

Dean's Big-Brother-Something's-Wrong-Ometer went nuts but he stayed silent as he hooked an arm under Sam's shoulders and helped him to the car.

**~~~~0000~~~~**

"You said doctor, not hospital," Sam argued, as soon as Dean turned into the entrance.

"Dude, when you can't walk 20ft by yourself, it means hospital," Dean said firmly.

He waited for the anticipated protest but it never came. Sam sat silent as he parked the car, forcing his worry up a notch.

"What, you not gonna bitch at me?" Dean forced a small grin but it was wasted. Sam was leaning his head against the window, eyes shut. He shook his head, rolling his forehead along the glass.

Dean's grin dropped along with his stomach. "Sammy?"

Sam made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat.

Chewing anxiously on his lower lip, Dean exited the car and strode quickly around the bonnet to his brother's door. "Come on, Sam, lets go."

Sam curled in on himself. "Dean, I just wanna sleep," he pleaded, and Dean almost gave in right then. He could take Sam back to their motel room, smother him in blankets and look after him until he was better. He could. He'd been looking after Sam his whole life. He knew what to do. But a voice in the back of his head whispered that this was serious, that it was more than a simple Winchester-fixer-upper, and the feeling of dread balling in his stomach confirmed it.

Dean had learnt very early in his life that instincts were never something to be ignored, so he steeled himself against Sam's plea – and damn it was hard to deny that kid anything when he looked so ill – and dragged his brother from the car, practically carrying him through the automatic doors and into the entrance of the hospital.

He dropped Sam in one of the dozen hard plastic waiting chairs, making sure he wasn't about to keel over before going to talk to the bored-looking woman at the reception desk. By the time he returned, loaded down with paperwork, Sam was half asleep, slumped down in the seat.

Dean eyed him for a moment in concern. This wasn't right. This couldn't be right. He'd seen Sam turn into a sleep-deprived zombie before, quite a few times actually. Dean dealt with stuff by drinking, or yelling, or, whatever, he just dealt. Sam dealt, or tried to deal, by refusing food and sleep. This was different though. Sam barely did anything but sleep and yet here he was, drifting off in front of him barely an hour after waking. Dean felt a sudden spike of fear at the unwelcome feeling that Sam was drifting away from him. Maybe there was something very wrong with his little brother.

Dean shucked off his leather jacket and gently draped it over Sam's shoulders. Sam mumbled something that could have been a thanks and Dean dropped down into the seat beside him to make a start on the mountains of forms.

**~~~~0000~~~~**

The nurse – a petite twenty-something year old in scrubs – examined his bruises while Sam tried to stay awake. He was so _tired_. God, how was it possible to be this tired? He wanted to sleep for a month, longer maybe. He wanted the nurse to hurry up so Dean could get him in the Impala and he could just sleep. Moving required insurmountable effort. He didn't want to be at the hospital. Why couldn't Dean have just let him _sleep_?

"How old is this?"

Sam looked up, forcing his eyes open. The nurse was holding his hand up, frowning at the cut there.

"'Bout a week?"

"Nearly two," Dean corrected. He was standing to the side, holding himself tensely, arms folded defensively across his chest, chewing on his bottom lip – a sure sign that he was worried. If it wasn't such an effort Sam would have told him to calm down. _Just tired, De…_

"Hmm," the nurse said.

Sam let his eyes fall closed again, vaguely aware that the nurse was still fussing around him. Dean was talking but not to him, to the nurse. He didn't bother listening. It was even hard to think…

"Hmm," the nurse said again, "Blood pressure's low."

"How low?" Dean demanded. Sam opened his eyes and shot Dean a look. He didn't have to be rude. Sam felt sorry for any nurse that had to deal with his overprotective brother. Dean wasn't looking at him though. His eyes were fixed on the nurse. He stood closer now, almost encroaching her personal space.

"How low?" he repeated, his voice low and deadly. _God, Dean, calm down._

If the nurse felt threatened she didn't show it. Maybe she was used to overprotective big brothers. She carefully noted something down on her clipboard.

"80 over 40," she answered Dean, still frowning. "I'll get the doctor."

The nurse – had she told him her name? He couldn't remember. Did it matter? – swished out of the room.

"That's low," Dean told him, as if he didn't already know that.

"I know," Sam replied anyway.

Sam got the feeling he was losing chunks of time. No hospital worked this quickly. Maybe he'd fallen asleep. Maybe he was never really awake to begin with. Either way, the doctor had appeared. Sam didn't bother listening to whatever he was saying either. Dean could listen for him. It didn't really matter…

He felt a quick, sharp prick to the inside of his elbow and realized the doctor was taking blood. He wanted to ask what they were testing it for but a moment later had forgotten that he cared.

The doctor examined the bruises. Sam felt him pressing them lightly. He swore he had more now than he did after the Valerie Wright case but was that important? Who cared? He didn't. Didn't care about anything other than closing his eyes, trying to sleep, but Dean kept saying his name, tying him to consciousness.

The doctor moved on. He could feel him prodding at his cuts. The one on his arm that had become infected still hadn't healed, and the one on his hand leaked blood through the gauze. That couldn't be right. Surely they should have faded by now. It felt like his body had gone on strike. Sam wondered what it was holding out for.

**~~~~0000~~~~**

Dean found himself in a rickety chair in the corner of the room, watching Sam sleep in the sterile white hospital bed. Curled on his side, facing Dean, one hand trailing over the edge, it was the same position Sam had slept in as a child. Dean felt a pang of nostalgia, again wresting with the urge to simply gather Sam up in his arms and take him away from this cold impersonal place, find somewhere to hunker down and take care of Sam himself.

He restrained himself. The doctor would be back soon, probably tell him that Sam had some sort of virus, prescribe antibiotics and send them on their way. Another week or two and they'd be back on the hunt, Sam's illness left in the past.

So why was his stomach balling into uncomfortable knots of dread?

He studied Sam's sleeping form intently, washing a hand down his face as if hoping it would erase the worry. Sam didn't look too bad, just tired and pale. Those bruises though… dark purple, grapefruit-sized bruises marring his brothers legs and abdomen. He hadn't seen those before. Where had they come from? Any bruises from their run in with the ghost of Valerie Wright should have faded. His had. And how does a person manage to get such vicious bruises when all they do is sleep?

Dean inhaled, exhaled tension, trying to push it from his body. It was just a virus. Sam's clumsy. He gets bruises a lot. He's just tired. It's just a virus. It had to be just a virus.

To Be Continued… 


	2. Chapter 2

**Fade**

**A/N: First of all, I'd just like to say that I've been overwhelmed by the response to this story. There's been an incredible amount of Story Alerts and even a few Favourite Story and Author's. Thanks so much, guys! I really appreciate it, especially the reviews! Thanks for taking the time to tell me what you thought! They really encouraged me to get this next chapter up as soon as possible.**

**Oh hey, by the way, does anyone have a working megavideo link to My Bloody Valentine, the latest episode? I couldn't find one and it's killing me!**

**Anyway, I hope this chapter doesn't disappoint. On with the show!**

**Chapter Two**

_Sam…_

Go 'way, Dean.

_Sam._

Lemme 'lone, I'm sleeping.

_Sam!_

Grudgingly, Sam followed his brother's voice into waking, wondering briefly what it was about Dean that caused him to obey almost automatically.

It was the smell that reminded him of where he was. Without it, he could have just as easily pictured the unfamiliar familiarity of generic motel rooms, yellowed wallpaper and stained carpets, but the heavy smell of bleach and disinfectant spoke of white. White walls, white ceilings, white sheets and white tiles. Hospital.

Still thinking longingly of the cushioning sleep he'd been so rudely dragged away from, Sam opened his eyes, blinking until the sleep fuzz faded and he turned his head to see Dean hovering over him, one hand still resting on his shoulder.

"Hey," he said softly, as if he were speaking to a child, "The doc's back."

"Oh," Sam said hazily, moving automatically as Dean raised the head of his bed so he could sit up. "D'they know what's wrong yet?"

The upright position cleared his head and he watched Dean turn towards the doctor, waiting expectantly.

The man – a serious looking fellow with a thick moustache and gray-speckled hair – glanced down at his clipboard with a frown.

"We're going to need to do a bone marrow biopsy. Your white blood cells are out of control."

"What does that mean?" Dean demanded, his hand tightening on Sam's shoulder. Sam squirmed slightly and he loosened his grip marginally.

"It could mean a lot of things," the doctor stated neutrally, glancing over Dean with a look of mild disapproval before turning back to Sam, "But to start with, it means blood transfusions are in order. You have an astonishing amount of white blood cells, depleted red cells and barely any platelets. How long have you felt unwell?"

Sam shrugged. How long had it been since he felt normal? It was hard to think with sleep threatening to overtake him once more. "A while?"

"And those bruises, have you had them long?"

Sam shrugged again. He always had bruises. What did it matter? Couldn't the guy see that he was tired?

"What's wrong with him?" Dean asked, a slight protective growl mixing in with his words.

The doctor paused and Sam quickly placed his hand on Dean's arm when he went to move forwards, effectively stilling him. Dean punching the doctor wouldn't help… or maybe it would have gotten them kicked out and then he could have gone back to the motel and slept. Oh well, maybe next time…

The doctor cleared his throat. "We'll know more after the biopsy," he said carefully, leaving the room quickly before Dean could ask any more questions.

Sam sighed and leant his head back. With the doctor gone there was no need for him to… bother… staying awake…

**~~~~0000~~~~**

Sam couldn't remember anyone taking his bone marrow for testing, which he was glad of because he imagined it must have hurt. In fact, despite Dean's assurance that they'd been at the hospital for a number of hours, Sam couldn't remember much of anything at all.

Awareness came to him slowly, bleeding through into the soft nothing that had embraced him.

"Sammy? You awake?"

A hand carded through his hair. Dean. Always Dean. Sam turned his head blindly, automatically towards his brother's voice and touch.

"Hey, open your eyes, Sam."

Sam obeyed and the dark fuzz in front of him gradually cleared to reveal Dean's leather jacket. Sam shifted his gaze upwards until he was looking Dean in the eye.

"Atta boy, Sammy," Dean encouraged affectionately, but Sam heard a hint of something else in his voice. Fear, maybe.

"Wha' happened?"

"Nothing. You just fell asleep. You're okay."

Sam nodded his agreement, if only to reassure Dean, wondering who his brother was trying to convince.

"Is it bad?" Sam tried to gauge Dean's expression but it gave nothing away.

"What bad?"

"What's wrong with me."

Frustration creased Dean's brow, "They wont tell me anything."

It looked for a moment like Dean wanted to kick something, but as Sam watched he seemed to make a conscious effort to pull himself together, his face softening into calm collected big brother mode.

"Do you feel any better now? They gave you all these transfusions." Dean ticked them off on his fingers, "Two red cells, a white cell and a platelet."

Sam pushed himself up, Dean automatically raising the head of the bed, surprised when no dizziness accompanied the motion.

"Yeah. 'M okay."

Dean sat back in his seat, absentmindedly smoothing out the sheets while chewing on his lower lip.

"What?" Sam asked.

Dean paused a moment, debating internally. Sam waited until Dean blew out a breath, wearily running a hand through his hair as he leant forward again and fingered the sheets. He glanced up to catch Sam's eye before his gaze darted back down to the bed.

"I dunno. Just… the doctor, he seems to think you're pretty sick."

"What'd he say?" Sam sat up straighter.

"Nothing," Dean sighed, "That's the problem. He's been ordering tests and consulting other doctors and he wont tell me what the hell's going on."

Maybe that should have worried Sam, brought about a little concern for his health, but at that moment reassuring Dean seemed more important.

"I feel better now," he offered.

Dean seemed to steady himself. "Yeah. That's good. You'll be fine, Sam."

Sam nodded, picking at the gauze on the back of his hand, both of them lapsing into silence as they continued the tense wait. After a moment, Dean reached over and gently pushed Sam's fingers away, pressing the corner of the gauze back down flat.

"It's still bleeding," he said, as if Sam hadn't noticed.

"Why?" Sam asked, frowning down at his hand and prodding the bandage. Dean deftly moved his fingers away again.

"I don't know."

"Does the doctor know?"

"I don't know."

Sam sunk back on the bed. "This sucks."

Dean nodded distractedly, looking at the bandage, his forehead creased.

Sam sighed, tilting his head to the side to look at his brother. "Dean, stop stressing. You're going to give yourself gray hairs."

Dean raised his eyebrows.

"Or wrinkles," Sam continued with a hint of a grin.

And it worked. Dean gave him an exaggerated incredulous look, "I'm not _that_ old, Sammy. I know I must seem ancient to someone as young as you-"

Sam scoffed, "I'm only four years younger."

"Then maybe you should start worrying about your own wrinkles, _little_ brother."

Sam opened his mouth to begin a comeback but was interrupted by knocking. Both brothers turned to the door, Sam looking up and Dean swiveling in his seat before standing. The doctor stood in the doorway, his face unreadable as he gazed over his clipboard at them.

"I've got the biopsy results."

The lighthearted atmosphere evaporated, seemingly taking half the air in the room with it. Suddenly, Sam didn't want to know. He felt a childish urge to put his hands over his ears. He wanted Dean to take him to the Impala so that they could drive far, far away from this hospital and the doctor with his biopsy results. But Sam's used to not getting what he wants.

"And…?" Dean prompted the doctor.

The doctor's face shifted slightly, throwing out a glimpse of regret.

"It's not good. Those bruises, the infection you told us about, that cut that wont stop bleeding – it doesn't paint a pretty picture."

Sam didn't want to know.

"And what picture does it paint?" Dean asked carefully.

The doctor lowered his clipboard, turning his softened gaze to Sam and looking him in the eye.

"It's leukemia."

The rest of the air disappeared. Sam's lungs froze, unable to take a breath, like a punch to the solar plexus.

"It's what?" he heard Dean ask. Why did Dean have to ask? Wasn't he the one who always asked questions? God, he didn't want to know.

"Acute Promyelocytic Leukemia, to be exact." Why did he have to be exact? "Cancer. In the blood and bone marrow."

Sam heard Dean thump back down into his chair, heavily, as if his legs had suddenly given out. The doctor carried on.

"You're grossly hypercellular. The cancerous cells in your bone marrow can't mature into healthy blood cells. They're spilling into your bloodstream by the millions, and they can't fight infection, clot your blood or transport oxygen. There's no room for your regular blood cells."

Dean's hand wound its way into Sam's and he realized he'd been aimlessly grasping at the bed sheets, searching for something that wasn't there. He found what he needed in Dean's firm hold. It grounded him, gave him something solid to cling to when, yet again, his world was ripped out from under him.

"It's a good thing you came in now. You're well on your way to blast crisis."

"What's that?"

_Damn it, Dean, shut up! Don't want to know! _

"It's a term we use for patients whose blood has been completely replaced by cancer cells. No red, no white, just blasts. That's why you needed the transfusions."

There was a long loaded silence. Sam didn't want to think. _Stop thinking._ What were they supposed to do now?

Sam may be the token family psychic but Dean can be a pretty good mind reader at times.

"What are we supposed to do now?" he asked.

The doctor gave a sympathetic smile, stroking his moustache thoughtfully. "Chemotherapy. I think you've avoided in-house chemo so we'll do outpatient. Three days a week. You can go home until Monday, sort out any work commitments, or school. Put everything on hold. You need to be in the Oncology Ward at 6am for blood work."

Sam sensed Dean nodding dazedly beside him. Don't look at Dean. Don't see the look on his face. Don't think.

The doctor headed for the door. Diagnosis given, case closed, for him anyway. He paused at the last minute, again searching for Sam's eyes.

"I'm sorry," he added, and then he was gone, leaving Sam alone with Dean and Cancer and a hospital room that seemed to be closing in on him.

**~~~~0000~~~~**

Dean gripped the Impala's steering wheel so tight his knuckles were white, focusing as hard as he could on the road. Right turn, straighten up, drive. A glance in the rear view mirror showed the hospital decreasing in size as they drove away. He never wanted to see it again, certainly never wanted to step foot in it.

Cancer. What the hell?! Ghosts and demons and curses, yeah, they were manageable… but _cancer_? He couldn't shoot that full of rock salt, douse it in holy water, read an incantation and make it go away. He suppressed a shudder at the thought of dark poisonous cells accumulating in his brother's blood, growing thicker and blacker.

Even the familiar rumblings of the Impala – _home _– offered no comfort to him.

He knew that he should say something. Tell Sammy that everything was going to be fine. He could fix this and damn straight he was going to. But his mind was stuck on a loop of _I wish Dad was here_. He had learnt, of course, that John Winchester was fallible and not the superhero he had thought him in childhood, and even through his teen years, if he was honest with himself, but he always felt comforted in the man's presence, able to relax a little, release the reigns to someone else.

But John wasn't there. John was in Hell, because of him, and Sammy had cancer, and Dean had to fix it.

**~~~~0000~~~~**

"You okay?" Dean's voice traveled across the bench seat, and Sam almost laughed because, seriously, he'd just been told he had cancer and that was about as far from _okay_ as you could get.

He would have laughed, except that it wasn't actually that funny at all.

"Sammy?" Concern, loud and clear, with no effort to hide it. "Come on, man, talk to me."

Sam shook his head, staring unseeingly out of the window, "I'm okay, just… I need…"

What? To think? No, thinking was definitely bad. Time? Wouldn't help at all. Some new blood would be good, some that wasn't poisoned. Or maybe just a whole new life, where his last name wasn't Winchester because Winchesters are cursed.

Sam left his sentence unfinished and watched the scenery whiz past in a blur of colours.

Dean cleared his throat awkwardly. "I should've taken you in when that cut got infected," he said gruffly, "Maybe…"

Sam recognized the tone and spun in his seat in surprise.

"This isn't _your_ fault," he said incredulously.

Dean gave a half-shrug, eyes firmly on the road.

"What, you think if you'd brought me in then, I wouldn't have cancer now?" Sam flinched at the C-word in time with his brother. "Come on, Dean, a few weeks wouldn't' have made much difference."

Dean bit his lip, offering nothing. The Impala growled throatily.

Sam ran a hand through his hair. God, his hair. Chemo – _Stop thinking, Sam!_ He changed track quickly.

"What are we going to do? Hunting-"

"We'll hunt when you're better, Sam,"" Dean cut him off firmly.

"That could be months away."

"The monsters will still be there in a few months."

"That's the point, Dean. We can't just leave people to-"

"Sam, no! We'll hunt when you're better. You're more important."

Sam felt a rush of affection for his tough, no-chick-flick-moments big brother, even if he was ignoring the issue.

"What are we gonna do about money?"

Dean chewed pensively on the inside of his cheek, "I'll figure it out. I'll sort everything. You just do the chemo and focus on getting better, okay?"

Sam sunk back in his seat, dread washing over him. "Do you know what chemo is, Dean?" he asked quietly.

Dean glanced at him uncertainly and Sam got the feeling he'd rather not know but he couldn't help himself.

"It's poison," he said flatly, "They put poison into your body to kill the cancer but it poisons you too."

"Sam-"

"It makes you sick, your organs sick, it poisons everything that's healthy inside you-"

"Sam…"

" - and sometimes it doesn't even work anyway - "

"Sam, stop!"

Sam suddenly jerked forward in his seat as Dean slammed on the breaks. He stopped mid-sentence, turning to see Dean bent over the steering wheel, clenching it so hard he was in danger of breaking it, or his fingers, breathing heavily. A car horn honked behind them.

"Just stop, okay, Sam?" Dean said quietly, "You're going to be fine.

"Dean-" Sam started.

"_Sam_," Dean warned in a voice that left no room for arguments. Sam shut up, suddenly deciding that he didn't feel like talking anyway.

The car behind them blared its horn again, and Sam sent out a silent prayer that the driver wouldn't get out and try to pick a fight. Dean would probably rip the guys head off if he did. But apparently there was a God, albeit one that let Sam get cancer, because Dean took a deep breath and started driving again, muttering something about where a horn could be shoved.

**~~~~0000~~~~**

"What are you doing?"

Sam sounded confused, maybe even a little bit pissed, but Dean didn't pause. He shook out each item of Sam's clothing carefully, checking pockets, before discarding them into the growing pile on the bed.

"Looking for hex bags. Sit down," he said gruffly, turning Sam's duffle inside out, running his hand along the seams and lining, turning out the pockets. It had to be here somewhere.

Sam sat, frowning at his crumpled clothes. "You think I've been cursed?

Dean didn't answer, dumping Sam's duffle bag on the floor and starting to shake out some books.

"Hey, be careful," Sam protested as a couple of loose pages fluttered to the floor.

Dean ignored him, his frustration growing. Where the hell was it?

"Get up," he ordered, and, thankfully, Sam obeyed without a word. Stepping away from the bed, he stood leaning against the doorway of the bathroom, his arms wrapped around himself. Dean wondered briefly whether he was cold or if he just needed the comfort. He shook it off. He needed to concentrate, find the damn hex bag and fix this.

Sam watched silently as he stripped the bed, feverishly searching through the tangle of sheets, checking the mattress. When that turned up nothing, he set about systematically demolishing the room.

Finally, he stood in the middle of the destruction, panting hard. Both duffels had been emptied, clothing strewn everywhere. Books littered the floor. The beds were both stripped naked, down to the mattress, and Dean had only just managed to restrain himself from slicing them up. Toiletries were tossed thoughtlessly onto the floor of the bathroom.

"Dean - " Sam started.

"Must be in the car," Dean said decisively, cutting him off as he brushed past to the door. He flung it open and strode over to the Impala.

Living in a car meant that rubbish tended to accumulate in the foot wells. Old McDonalds bags, candy wrappers, old newspapers, all tossed on the ground as Dean feverishly checked every nook and cranny. The contents of the glove compartment dumped on the seat.

When the interior was cleared, he moved on to the exterior, checking the bumpers, the wheel guards, the bonnet. He emptied out the boot, tipped out their first aid kit, even did a quick surreptitious sweep of the hidden compartment their weapons were stashed in, before, once more, he simply stood among the mess, at a complete loss, arms dropped limply at his sides, his back to Sam, who had watched silently from the doorway.

Dean felt sort of hollow. He had let himself believe that the solution lay within his reach. Damn it, he'd been _hoping_ that Sam had been cursed, because that would have been easier, a quick fix and then revenge. Hex bags were often simple to deal with, once you found them. It could have been over before midnight.

"Damn it!" he cursed aloud.

The hollow space inside him quickly bubbled up with rage, unexplainable, irrepressible anger, and he only just had enough sense left to move away from his beloved Impala before it was unleashed.

The vending machine made a formidable target and satisfying clunks and bangs as he pounded his fists into it. He didn't even feel the pain in his hands so he carried on swearing and throwing punches, unaware of how long he'd been at it until Sam suddenly spoke from right behind him. He hadn't even heard him come up.

"Come on, Dean, that's not very fair. The vending machine can't defend itself."

He ceased his attack, breathing heavily, and turned to his brother, surprised to see that the light had begun to fade.

"Huh?" he said eloquently, struggling to regain his composure.

"I meant, if you're finished beating up the defenseless vending machine, we should probably go inside. You're attracting attention."

Dean followed Sam's gesture in time to see a curtain fall back into place in one of the nearby motel room windows.

Acquiescing, he fell into step with Sam and they made their way back to their room. He paused in the doorway, remembering the state of the Impala, but when he looked he saw that Sam must have put everything back into place during his fight with the vending machine because the doors were shut and the ground around it was clear.

The same couldn't be said about their motel room however. Sighing heavily, Dean set about tidying the place, shooing Sam away when he tried to help.

Sam pulled the sheets back onto his bed and sat, uncharacteristically obedient. Dean cleaned in silence for a while.

"So no hex back," Sam stated.

Dean continued shoving clothes into his duffel. "No hex bag," he confirmed heavily, "You're not cursed."

Sam huffed a humourless laugh, "If you say so."

Dean's stomach clenched. He dropped the bag and crossed the room to Sam in three strides, kneeling down in front of him.

"You listen to me, Sam," he said thickly. He waited for Sam to meet his eye, then spoke, low and serious, "You are _not_ cursed. I'm going to fix this."

Sam chewed his lower lip, looking almost exactly the way he had when he was young and scared. "What if you can't?"

Dean set his mouth in a determined line, remembering Sam's words after he'd been electrocuted.

"Watch me."

To Be Continued… 


	3. Chapter 3

Fade

**A/N: I was going to do some shout outs here but so many people left such fabulous reviews that it would have gone on forever, so it's gonna have to be a shout out to everyone who was kind enough to take the time to review. Thanks so much!**

**I'm baby-free at the moment and want to get this done before I leave for a 21****st**** tonight so, on with the show… story…**

**~~~~0000~~~~**

Chapter Three

"You're gonna _what_?!"

Dean was pissed. And more than a little freaked out, to tell the truth, but no one had mentioned this before.

"A Hickman catheter is nothing to be worried about," the nurse explained gently, "It's so we can administer meds, take and give blood without scarring up the veins on his arms."

"You're gonna put a hole in his chest?" Dean said incredulously. He had himself planted between the nurse and Sam, arms crossed while Sam sat silent on the bed. "I want to talk to the doctor."

The nurse seemed to consider him for a moment, apparently decided that he wasn't someone she should go up against and after a quick, "One moment, please" scurried away. Dean sighed, letting his hands fall to his sides, and went to sit down next to Sam.

"Are you okay with this?" he asked, eyebrows raised.

Sam glanced up at the IV stand waiting at the bedside. "Do I really have a choice?"

And damn, Sam sounded miserable. Between bouts of furious research, Dean had spent the weekend trying to keep Sam entertained, take his mind off of the looming Monday. He was fairly sure that Sam had only given in to shut him up but the horror movie they'd gone to had managed to crack them both up – because horror flicks never failed to entice laughs from them, with the gross inaccuracies and B-rate acting – and the night before they'd stayed at the motel with pizza and beer and absolutely no mention of the C-word. Dean's distractions seemed to have worked, mostly.

There was no avoiding the subject now, however, and Dean grudgingly had to admit that the doctor made sense when the nurse returned with her to explain why the Hickman catheter was necessary. Still didn't mean he had to like it.

"You don't have to watch," Sam told him, probably sensing Dean's sudden queasiness. Kid knew him too well. He'd never been good at seeing Sam in trouble, and someone slicing into his chest totally fell into that category. "Go call Bobby."

Bobby. Damn, he probably should have called him already. In his defense, he had been… distracted, busy scouring Dad's journal in search of a cure.

Dean eyed the doctor warily. Doctor Harper was a nice-looking woman, middle aged and a bit on the plump side. She looked like somebody's mother and Dean felt that there was something comforting in that, or there would have been if she wasn't laying out instruments, preparing to slice into his brother's chest.

"Are you sure?" he asked doubtfully, "I can wait."

Sam shook his head, closing his eyes as he rested his head on the thin, hospital-regulation pillow.

Dean hesitated for just a moment, catching the doctor's eye with a look that promised very bad things should anything go wrong while he was gone, then he stepped out of the room and headed for the payphones.

**~~~~0000~~~~**

Bobby was under the hood of a car when he heard his cell phone trill. Grumbling to himself, he wiped his hands on a rag before digging into his pocket. He frowned at the screen, _Unknown Number_ flashing at him and answered cautiously.

"Hello?"

_ "Bobby."_

Damn it, it was Dean, and he sounded shook up, which really only meant one thing: Sam was in trouble.

Those darned kids, they were already responsible for more than half the gray hairs on his head and by the sound of it, they were about to give him a few more.

"What happened?"

Bobby heard Dean let out a whoosh of a sigh.

_ "Sam's sick."_

Now, when Dean Winchester calls to tell you that his brother's sick, he ain't talking about some run of the mill cold. Bobby considered the possibilities.

"Curse?" he asked gruffly. "Found any hex bags? What have you been hunting?"

There was a pause on the line.

_"No, he's, like… _sick_ sick."_

Bobby frowned. What had those Winchester's managed to get themselves into now?

"How bad?" He was already moving towards the house. He had the feeling he'd be needing some research material.

"_It's, um…"_

Darn it, this must be bad. There was very little in this world that left Dean struggling for words. Bobby had reached the front porch by the time the rest of the sentence came.

"_Acute Promye-something… I don't know. It's leukemia, Bobby. Cancer."_

Bobby stopped dead in his tracks, cell phone crackling in his ear. For a brief, desperate moment he wondered whether Dean was playing some sick joke but the thought was discarded just as quick. Dean wouldn't joke about that.

Which, unfortunately, meant he was serious. It was like a punch to the solar plexus. Sam? Had cancer? No way. Bobby didn't realize how long he'd been silent until Dean's voice in his ear asked, _"Bobby? You still there?"_

Bobby shook himself and quickly carried on into the house, making his way to the study.

"Where are you boys?" he asked finally.

_"At the hospital,"_ Dean's hushed voice said. _"He's about to start his first round of chemo."_

Another punch. Damn it, those Winchester boys were family, blood or no blood, and with John gone… _This ain't the time to go all mushy, Singer_, he told himself firmly, _Get your head in the game._

"Which state?"

Bobby rustled through some papers, jotting down the boy's location as he searched.

"Give me a few hours, Dean. I think I can find some healers in the area. They might be able to help."

He sort of sensed the now-eldest Winchester sag, and Dean's voice was heavy with relief when he breathed, _"Thanks, Bobby."_

Bobby flicked open his book of contacts, then paused.

"And tell Sam…" He wasn't sure how to continue.

_"I will, Bobby,"_ Dean assured him.

Bobby held his phone to his chest for a long moment after Dean disconnected the call, before he heaved out a sigh and placed it down on the table.

He had work to do.

**~~~~0000~~~~**

"What is that anyway?" Dean asked ill temperedly, gesturing to the clear liquid in the IV bag hooked up to Sam. He didn't like this. He really didn't like this.

"Cytarabine," the nurse – a slim brunette – explained. "It kills the existing cancer-cells. And after that it'll be VePesid, which does the same thing and stops the cells from reproducing."

"And it's basically poison?" Dean said doubtfully.

The nurse sent him a sympathetic smile, "Fight fire with fire, right?"

Dean shrugged and turned back to Sam.

"How you doing?"

Sam shifted uncomfortably. "I'm alright."

Dean leant in, lowering his voice so the nurse couldn't hear. "Bobby's making some calls, gonna find some healers. You just gotta hang on until we can fix this."

Sam nodded vaguely, eyeing the IV bag apprehensively.

Dean sat back. Okay, so, distraction time.

"Did I ever tell you about the time…"

**~~~~0000~~~~**

Sam felt kind of like the way he had when the… _something_ had bitten him. The things name escaped him but the double vision and lightheadedness he remembered.

He heard Dean pause mid-way through a story about a stray cat they'd tried to rescue when they were young. He remembered that cat, even though he couldn't have been more than four or five at the time. They'd hidden it in their closet, where it had made a shocking mess and almost scratched clean through the door. Dad had not been impressed.

"Hey, Sam? You alright?"

Sam blearily looked up and the two Dean's floating above him merged into one, then split into two again, finally settling on two and a half. That was… weird. And the colours seemed to be sliding off of Dean's shirt, melting into a disorientating swirl.

"Sam?"

Dean's lips moved out of time with his voice and Sam closed his eyes briefly, hoping that things would have righted themselves when he opened them. The room rolled like a ship on the ocean.

"Gonna be sick," he mumbled to the bed sheets, wondering vaguely whether his voice was out of sync to, and immediately felt hands helping him up, guiding him towards the bathroom. He closed his eyes as the room spun.

"Hey, can we unhook that thing for a while?" Dean's voice asked, right by his ear. Must've been dragging the IV stand with him.

"Sorry, it has to stay." A woman's voice, a few feet away. When had she come into the room? Or had she never left?

Dean growled in frustration but when he spoke to Sam again his voice was soft.

"It's okay, Sammy, I got ya."

Sam had to hold onto the sides of the toilet to make sure he was throwing up in the real one. He doubted he would have been able to keep his balance, even on his knees, if Dean hadn't planted one hand on his shoulder to steady him, the other rubbing slow circles on his back, murmuring words of encouragement that Sam couldn't quite make out over his own retching.

God, it was like a really bad acid trip. The earth moved underneath him, the walls spun, forming crazy patterns, all disorientating and muddled, the overhead lights developed halos. His body was revolting against the drugs, against him.

Finally, he rested his forehead on the cool porcelain, breathing deep and slow.

"You good?" Dean asked, hand stilling.

Sam nodded and Dean very carefully, more careful and gentle than most people thought him possible of, pulled him back and propped him against the bathroom wall, stepping away briefly to flush the toilet, then sliding down the wall next to him

Sam breathed in the smell of leather and let himself melt against his brother's side, reaching a hand out to fist in Dean's shirt, an old habit of comfort from childhood. Let Dean tease him for it later, he didn't care. He needed something to ground him. He couldn't open his eyes because the room was conspiring to make him throw up, and he didn't want to see the bag of chemicals still dripping into his body anyway, but he needed Dean and he didn't want to let go.

"How much longer?" he mumbled into Dean's shoulder.

He felt Dean shift to look at his watch.

"'Bout 20 minutes."

Sam moaned and Dean pulled him closer, one arm around his shoulders, the other stroking his hair the way he used to when Sam was sick as a child. He buried his face in Dean's jacket and let his brother's murmured encouragements wash over him.

**~~~~0000~~~~**

"Pull over."

Dean spun the Impala's steering wheel, jerking to a halt at the side of the road, and Sam barely got the door open before he was retching again.

Dean leant over and grabbed the back of his little brother's shirt to stop him from falling out, then scooted over on the seat until he was behind Sam and could wrap a secure arm around his waist, placing a hand on his brother's clammy forehead.

Dean held him for a good 15 minutes before Sam finally stopped heaving and spitting, nothing left to actually throw up, and sagged like a puppet with its strings cut. Dean carefully pulled him back so that he was leaning against his chest. They stayed like that for a long moment.

"This sucks," Sam finally breathed out, and Dean took that as permission to start driving again. He set Sam back down in his seat and moved back behind the wheel.

"Nearly there, Sam," Dean reassured as he once again started the engine and resumed their trip back to the motel.

For a drive that should have taken maybe 20 minutes, in slow traffic, it took them nearly an hour, if you counted the time they spent in the hospital parking lot, waiting until Sam thought he could handle being in a moving car.

Reaching the motel was a welcome relief. Dean eased the car to a halt and slid out to help Sam. Sam waved him off and followed under his own steam, which made Dean feel slightly better, even if he was a little unsteady.

"You need anything?" Dean asked, shedding his jacket. Sam dropped down onto his bed, flopping back and closing his eyes.

"New blood," he thought he heard Sam mutter but when he turned back from hanging his jacket on the hook by the door, Sam's breathing had evened out, his face smoothed by sleep.

Dean sighed, giving his little brother a sad, fond half-smile as he gently repositioned Sam on the bed, easing off his shoes and tugging the blankets over him. He stood back, regarding his younger sibling for a moment, then leant forward again, shifting the neck of Sam's t-shirt so that it covered the Hickman catheter in his chest. He _so_ didn't want that thing staring at him while Sam slept.

He was about to turn on the TV, watch some daytime drivel while flicking through his Dad's journal for the umpteenth time, when his phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out, scanning the Caller ID quickly, and pressed _Answer_ before the Metallica jingle could disturb Sam's rest.

He walked to the bathroom, catching the door with his foot to pull it most of the way shut, before speaking.

"Bobby. You got anything?" He leant against the towel rack. Straight to business, and if that was rude, well, who gave a damn anyway? Obviously not Bobby, who seemed to be on the same wavelength.

"Two in your area," he replied promptly, indeed cutting to the chase, "One's called Cecelia. I've met her. She's good. Seen her fix broken bones in minutes. Not sure about…"

The C-word.

"What about the other one?" Dean pressed, his eyes fixed on the grimy tiled wall of the shower.

"Now I don't know about her," Bobby confessed, "Got her name through a friend of a friend. But it's worth checking out."

"Yeah," Dean agreed readily.

"How's Sam?"

Dean glanced towards the bathroom door, "He's sleeping." He sunk down onto the rim of the tiny bathtub. "Damn, Bobby, chemo's a bitch."

He heard the older man sigh, "So I've heard. Sam's tough, Dean, he can handle it. It's only until we find something."

Dean nodded, forgetting that Bobby couldn't see him. "Yeah. Yeah, I know. Thanks Bobby."

"No problem, kid. Look after that brother of yours."

"Always do, Bobby."

**~~~~0000~~~~**

"Will he get used to it?" Dean asked, "Like, build up a tolerance?"

The nurse – Catherine – gave him that sympathetic look. The one Dean was really getting sick of.

"No. It gets worse. The cumulative effect of the drugs…"

Dean stopped her with a wave of his hand. Didn't want to know. Didn't think Sam wanted to know.

"What's that?" he asked instead as Catherine presented Sam with a pill.

"Vitamin A," Catherine, who was apparently Sam's 'critical care' nurse – in charge when the doctor wasn't around – answered promptly, adding a few points to her score. Dean liked nurses that explained things readily.

"It's called ATRA in pill form," she went on, "It works very well in combination with the other drugs, although it does have some risks."

"What risks?" Dean asked, placing a hand over Sam's to stop him from swallowing the pill, ignoring the exasperated look his brother gave him.

"It's associated with pulmonary leukostasis syndrome. White blood cells clump in the lungs and cause respiratory distress. I explained it to Sam yesterday."

Dean shot Sam a look, but it was hard to be angry at him for not divulging this information when he was sitting in a hospital bed, looking damn miserable again. He gave Dean a slight shrug.

"Why use it then?" he demanded.

Catherine looked him straight in the eye. Damn no nonsense nurses.

"I don't recommend not taking it," she said, in a tone that suggested he should just let her do her job. "It's aggressive treatment for an aggressive cancer."

Dean grudgingly removed his hand from Sam's and allowed him to swallow the pill. Maybe he'd feel more lenient had the chemo sessions not been getting in the way of his plans to take Sam to Cecelia, let her use her mojo to fix him rather than pouring poison into him three days a week.

Speaking of which, Dean averted his gaze slightly as Catherine hooked Sam up to the IV. Damn Hickman catheter.

Sam went quiet, chaffing the bed sheet between his fingers in a nervous gesture Dean recognized easily. He pushed away his frustrated helplessness over the whole situation and leant forward to begin another round of distraction, reminding himself forcefully that this was only until he could get Sam to Cecelia.

**~~~~0000~~~~**

Dean wanted to take Sam to Cecelia on Thursday morning, as soon as the week's chemo was done and after a nights rest. Get this thing over with already because this had to be the suckiest week in the history of sucky weeks and he wasn't keen to continue it any longer than they had to.

But Sam spent most of Wednesday night throwing up until, exhausted, he fell asleep leaning on Dean on the bathroom floor in the early hours of the morning.

Dean changed his plans to Friday.

TBC 


	4. Chapter 4

**Fade**

**A/N: Not a lot to say this time, except for the usual THANKS everyone for all your wonderful reviews and alerts and favourites! I'm just blown away. I hope you all enjoy this chapter. Reviewers will get a million virtual hugs.**

**Chapter Four**

Sam woke when the Impala's engine shut off, the absence of the familiar rumbling drawing him into waking. He blinked blearily and got up, Dean's leather jacket sliding off of him, sending a rush of affection for his older brother through him.

"Where are we?" he asked, bewildered as he took in the generic suburban street they were parked on.

Dean reclaimed his jacket and pocketed the car keys. "Healer, remember?"

"What?" Sam asked, frowning uncomprehendingly.

Dean's eyes softened, which told Sam he was forgetting something he should have remembered. It was just… hard to concentrate sometimes.

"Told you before we left. Bobby found her for us."

"Oh. Oh, yeah, I remember." Definitely something he shouldn't have forgotten. Dean had only been going on about it for days, like it was the key to everything.

Dean made an effort to grin. Sam almost wished he wouldn't. It was painful to look at such a lie, Dean forcing a smile. "Going senile in your old age, Sammy?"

"I'm younger than you," Sam halfheartedly returned the banter as he followed Dean out of the car. "I'm okay," he added when Dean moved to help him.

"You sure?" Dean prodded.

Sam rolled his eyes, because he normally rolled his eyes when Dean went into 'mother hen' mode, and he wanted things to be normal again – well, Winchester normal, at least – but he couldn't put any of the usual exasperation in his voice.

"I'm fine, Dean."

Dean led the way up the path of a small house. It looked cozy, with a little garden that Sam imagined looked nice in warmer weather. It was the kind of house he would have wanted to have after he married –

Any good feelings vanished in an instant, not that there were many to start with. Jess was dead, Dad was dead and he was dying. What was there to be happy about?

A woman opened the door before Dean could knock. She looked to be on the right side of 40, a few lines but no wrinkles, and her long blonde hair seemed to be natural. She'd kept her figure too, but her eyes…

Sam did a double take but they were still the same soft violet and something told him that they weren't contacts.

"Bobby's friends?" the woman inquired, those eyes trailing over Dean and then settling on Sam. "Oooh, yes," she murmured, although they hadn't spoken, "You're very sick. I don't know… but I can try. Come inside."

Sam blinked. Neither him nor Dean had even said a word yet. Dean turned to him and gave him an 'everything's-gonna-be-okay-now' smile, which Sam half-heartedly returned, before they stepped into the house.

The woman, Cecelia, Sam remembered now, led them down a hallway. There were photos on the walls, a younger girl in her early teens, bearing a striking resemblance to Cecelia, and a young man leaning against the hood of a deep green Mercedes Benz. Sam saw Dean glance at it appreciatively.

"My children," Cecelia smiled, gesturing at the pictures.

"Nice car," Dean nodded.

"Mm," Cecelia agreed aimlessly, "Gone now. Took my children with it. But yes, a nice car. Henry loved it."

Dean looked suitably mollified, "I'm sorry. I didn't…"

Cecelia patted the air, placating. "Don't worry about it. It was a long time ago. And anyway, the dead don't truly leave us, do they? They're both right here." She placed a hand over her heart.

Dean nodded awkwardly and they carried on to the living room. Cecelia gestured for them to sit on the couch by the coffee table, on which two cups of steaming tea had been placed.

"Are you expecting someone?" Dean asked, eyeing the mugs.

Cecelia's violet eyes twinkled a little, "I was expecting you, wasn't I?"

Dean frowned, "But we didn't…"

Cecelia turned her amused gaze to Sam, "Bit slow, is he?"

Sam snorted and hastily turned away from Dean's glare.

"So how does this work?" Dean asked, still scowling slightly.

Cecelia lost her smirk, her eyes turning serious. "It's hard to explain."

"But it _does_ work?" Dean pressed.

Cecelia canted her head, observing Sam. "I've never fixed cancer before," she murmured, abruptly standing and moving in front of Sam, nudging the coffee table out of her way. All business now, she knelt down before him, scanning him intently.

"I can see it," she continued, with an air of awe, seeming to speak to herself.

Sam felt like she was looking through him. He suddenly found that he couldn't tear his gaze away from her. His eyes widened as a fine mist of colours abruptly sprung out from her body, like an aura. He got a sudden strong sense of power emanating from the woman in front of him. He could feel it as she reached out and put a hand to his chest and he allowed himself a brief flash of hope.

Dean was holding his breath, Sam could tell without looking. The couch was still, no movement beside him, and then, something warm was creeping into him. He let out an involuntary gasp and looked down but couldn't see anything besides Cecelia's hand. She was looking through him, inside him, her strange eyes darting to observe something he couldn't see.

Then the warmth receded, so suddenly it left him cold, and Cecelia pulled her hand away. She stayed knelt on the floor, shuddering slightly. Her eyes flicked up to meet Sam's.

"I'm sorry," she breathed, shaking her head.

Sam slumped down on the couch, wrapping his arms around himself, trying to bring back the warmth. It didn't work.

"You're sorry?" Dean was suddenly on his feet. "What d'you mean, you're _sorry_? You're a healer – heal him!"

Cecelia shook her head again, climbing to her feet. "I can't."

"Bullshit!" Dean actually stomped a foot. "Bobby said you were the real deal. He said he's seen you fix broken bones."

Sam could hear the desperation in his voice. He wondered whether Cecelia could hear it too or if it was just because he knew Dean that he could understand what was hidden behind his anger.

"Broken bones are easy," Cecelia explained firmly, "I just knit them back together. I can't… the cancer's everywhere. Millions of cells. I'm sorry, Dean, I'm not a miracle worker. I can't fix him."

Sam couldn't seem to find the energy to be disappointed. He hadn't really expected it to work anyway. It would have been too easy and nothing was ever easy for Winchesters. But Dean…

Dean stood in the middle of Cecelia's cozy living room, surrounded by photos of her dead children, devastation rolling off of him in waves, looking lost, and Sam could always find energy to feel for his brother. He knew that Dean had been so sure of this, so certain that it would work, because he couldn't accept that it wouldn't.

"Try again," Dean ordered.

"I'm sorry," Cecelia said.

Dena thumped a hand on the coffee table, sloshing cold tea onto the cloth, "Damn it, stop being sorry and heal him!"

"I can't!" Cecelia cried, "I'm sorry but I can't!"

There was a moment's stand off, Dean and Cecelia eyeing each other across the living room. Finally, Cecelia turned back to Sam, taking his hand in hers.

"I really am sorry," she said quietly, and Sam believed her.

"Whatever," Dean interrupted briskly, grabbing onto Sam's other hand and tugging him from Cecelia's grasp. "Come on, Sam. Let's go."

Sam let Dean pull him to his feet before he paused to look at Cecelia. She stood, eyes closed in a private moment of her own.

"It's okay," Sam said, reaching out to touch her hand. He wondered if Dean saw the single tear trailing down her cheek.

Dean growled, tugging back until Sam gave in. Dean dragged him from the house, fuming and muttering to himself.

"What the hell do you mean, _it's okay_?!" Dean exploded, even as he opened the Impala's door for Sam, "How was _that_ okay?"

"It's not her fault," Sam said fairly.

Dean paused a moment to make sure that Sam was settled in the car before slamming the door shut and stomping round to the drivers side. Sam briefly marveled at the way his brother managed to be gentle and violent at the same time.

Dean climbed into the car and slammed his own door, then sat, gripping the steering wheel tightly but making no move to start the car.

Sam fidgeted, "Dean-?"

"_God damn it_!" Dean yelled, smacking his fists against the wheel, "Son of a bitch!"

He huffed in a few deep breaths before finally turning the key in the ignition and pulling out much harder than usual.

"I'm gonna fix this, Sam," he said, eyes on the road, voice low and steady. "Don't you worry. I'm gonna fix this."

**~~~~0000~~~~**

The second healer was a total bust. She was a young woman, barely out of her teens, wearing long swirl-y clothes, with a house full of crystals and various other 'New Age-y' objects that were obviously supposed to impress her clients.

Dean wasn't impressed.

He didn't even bother catching her name, and barely noticed the curvaceous figure under those hippy clothes, before he dragged Sam back to the Impala.

Again, he sat gripping the wheel, clenching his jaw so tightly his teeth threatened to shatter, unmoving, glaring out the windscreen.

"We should have let her try. Would've been a laugh."

Dean threw an incredulous glance at Sam, unwilling to allow his brother to lighten the mood.

"Do you think this is funny, Sam?! Those were our two best shots! What the hell are we meant to do now?"

Sam flinched as if he'd been hit, then sunk down in his seat, eyes averted.

Dean sighed, immediately wilting. What did he think he was doing, yelling at Sam? He released his grip on the steering wheel, flexing his fingers, and leant back.

"Hey."

He waited until Sam raised his head, not quite making eye contact but Dean would take what he could get.

"I'm sorry, Sam. I didn't mean to yell at you. Just…"

The dark head bobbed, "I know."

There was a moment of silence, before Dean wordlessly took the wheel and began driving.

Sam fell asleep ten minutes in and, even though his position didn't change – leant against the door, head against the glass, hair falling over his eyes – Dean could tell the exact moment he drifted off.

He relaxed slightly in his seat. No need to be staunch when Sam wasn't watching. He was glad Sam was getting some rest but it left him with a half hour drive back to the motel with nothing but his thoughts for company. And his thoughts were not very good company.

Two healers down. Two chances to save Sam gone, and Dad's journal was drawing a blank. He wasn't really surprised – if there had been anything Sam would have found it when Dean's heart was failing. He felt an ill sense of regret that they'd dealt with Sue-Ann and her reaper. As much as the knowledge that someone else had died in his place hurt, he would have traded for Sam. And that thought sickened him, but he couldn't help it. He knew, without a doubt, that he would have let someone else face the reaper before he let Sam. If only he had the option.

Dean swung by the diner to pick up some dinner, welcoming the distraction of food, still turning ideas over in his head. There was no real distraction. Cancer took up his every thought.

It was a relief when he finally turned into the gravel parking lot of the motel. He shook Sam awake and steered his still half-asleep brother into their room and over to the bed. Sam sat there for a moment, blinking into space, before his eyes cleared and he looked around the motel room as if wondering how he got there.

"You fell asleep again," Dean said in explanation, holding out a plain chicken sandwich to him. Sam eyed it warily.

"You have to eat, Sam."

Sam looked up at him, turning on the puppy dog eyes. Dean shook his head.

"That ain't gonna work. Eat. Now."

Sam sullenly took the sandwich and Dean retreated to his own bed, kicking the trashcan closer to Sam.

"What's the point in eating if I'm just gonna throw up?"

"Don't throw up."

Sam threw him an exasperated look, "I'm not doing it on purpose."

"Just eat it, Sam."

Sam scowled at him but grudgingly peeled off the wrapper. Dean tucked into his burger while Sam slowly dissected his sandwich. He watched, trying to act as if he wasn't, but Sam was eating, not just messing around with the food and it seemed like it was staying down, which was a relief. For three days nothing had stayed down longer than twenty minutes. Day four managed an hour at best. Maybe day five would actually allow Sam to digest something.

"You wanna do something tonight?" Dean asked with his mouth full, hastily swallowing when Sam suddenly turned a pale shade of green.

Sam swallowed convulsively a few times, and Dean thought he'd blown it, but he recovered and shrugged.

"What's there to do?"

Dean took another bite of his burger and Sam looked away. "We could go to the library or something?"

"You, want to go to _the library_?" Sam asked doubtfully.

Not really. Give him a bar with good music and cheap beer and Dean was in Heaven, but he doubted Sam would be keen and he sure as hell wasn't going anywhere without him. So Dean just shrugged. "There's only so much bad TV a person can stand."

Sam gave him an odd look, like he knew why Dean was offering the library instead of a bar – hell, he probably did know – but he didn't say anything about it.

"Library'll be closed by now," he said instead, abandoning his half-eaten sandwich and pulling the laptop towards him. "Maybe tomorrow."

Dean frowned at the discarded food, then at the laptop. "What are you doing on that?"

"Checking emails, why?"

Dean shrugged, crumpling his burger wrapper and throwing it at the bin. "I guess I'll call Bobby."

Sam nodded vaguely, already engrossed in whatever he was looking at on the screen.

"Want anything from the vending machine?" Dean asked as he headed for the door.

Sam didn't answer so he took that as a no and stepped outside, already dialing Bobby's number.

"_Dean, how'd it go?"_

Dean made his way to the vending machine, – still in working order despite his earlier efforts – tucking the phone under his ear as he patted his pockets for change.

"No dice, Bobby. Cecelia couldn't do anything and the other was a complete fraud. Don't bother giving her name out anymore."

There was a disappointed pause. Dean pictured Bobby twisting his baseball cap. _"I'm sorry, Dean. I really thought Cecelia would've been able to help."_

Dean absently fed some coins into the slot. "Don't sweat it. I'll figure something out."

"_About that, I was thinking I'd come meet up with you boys, bring a few books, see if we can find something."_

Dean paused; listening to the muffled thud as a can of something he couldn't remember ordering fell into the dispenser tray. "If this is some kind of 'final visit' with Sam…"

"_No, of course not, ya idjit,"_ came Bobby's gruff denial, _"Just thought I could help. And it's been a while, it'd be good to see you two."_

Dean exhaled a whoosh of air, bending to pick up his can. Huh, L&P. Who even drinks that stuff? "Yeah. Yeah, okay, Bobby. It'd be good to see you too."

"_Good. I'll start packing. How's Sam doing?"_

"He's keeping food down again. That's an improvement."

"_Tell him to hang in there. We'll find something."_

Dean nodded determinedly. They would. He would. "Yeah, we will."

"_And Dean?"_

"Yeah?"

"_You hang in there too."_

Dean felt his eyes mist up at the older man's concern. He rubbed them furiously. "Always do, Bobby."

He slipped his phone back into his pocket and made his way back to their room, sipping distractedly at his L&P. Sam didn't look up when he entered, still captivated by the screen.

"Bobby's gonna bring some books up for us to check out," Dean said.

Sam didn't seem to hear him.

"Sam? What are you looking at?"

Sam finally glanced up. "Nothing," he said, not looking at the screen as he clicked the mouse a few times, then closed the laptop.

Dean narrowed his eyebrows but Sam wasn't offering anything else.

"I'm gonna go have a shower," he said instead.

Dean waited until he could hear running water in the bathroom before he crossed the room to Sam's bed and re-opened the laptop. So Sam usually did the research on hunts, it didn't mean that Dean didn't know his way around a computer. At the very least he knew how to access the history. It didn't take long for him to find the web pages Sam had been looking at.

'_AML causes a third of all deaths from Leukemia_,' he read, '_It offers a 17 percent chance of living beyond five years, earning it the lowest five year survival rate of all Leukemia's…_'

Dean read no further. Maybe Sam was onto something when he said he was cursed – Sam couldn't just have cancer, as if that wasn't enough. No, of course Sam had to have one of the worst cancers. Winchesters never do things in halves.

He sat back on the bed, turning his gaze to the closed bathroom door for a long moment, then he slowly shut down the open windows and closed the laptop.

TBC…

**A/N: I had to ply my 18 month old with chocolate so I could finish typing it up. So I'm gonna have a hyperactive munchkin on my hands for the rest of the day now - hope you guys liked it!! Please review!**

**Hmmm, do they even have L&P in America? The adds all say 'World Famous in New Zealand'…**


	5. Chapter 5

**Fade**

**A/N: Haha, I did some research after posting the last chapter and it seems that L&P is only available in New Zealand, or at special NZ stores overseas, so Dean wouldn't actually have been able to just grab a can from a vending machine. Oh well, we'll call it poetic license.**

Chapter Five

Dean reached out and gently touched Sam's forehead, as if trying to brush hair that was no longer there out of his eyes. An old gesture of comfort.

The ventilator hissed and whooshed, playing in time with the beeping of the heart monitor.

Years had piled onto Dean, in the same way weight had fallen off of Sam. There was probably a connection there. Dean looked gray and haggard, or worse, broken. He took an unsteady breath. It was a rare, unguarded moment, no bravado, no cocky confidence.

Muted hospital noises played on in the background; the soft shuffle of moving feet, hushed words, a female voice paging someone over the intercom.

Dean took Sam's thin hand in his, still brushing Sam's forehead soothingly. Sam looked grayer than Dean, completely motionless, deep purple bruises around his closed eyes. A tearless sob ripped from Dean's throat.

"I'm so sorry, Sammy," he whispered, "I'm so sorry."

The monitor beeped twice, lazily, and then gave out to the monotonous ringing of a flatline.

And Sam bolted upright in his bed.

He heard Dean's voice talking to him long before he could understand the words. He couldn't breathe, as if the tube was still fixed in his throat, and the sound of his heart stopping rang in his ears. Pain lanced through his head and a distant part of him hoped he wouldn't get a nosebleed because how would they stop it if his blood wouldn't clot?

He felt Dean grasp him, thumbs curling over his shoulder blades, heard Dean's voice switch from concerned to panicking, but all he could see was a cold hospital room, himself dying and Dean's grief-stricken face.

Another spike of pain drove its way into his skull. It was too much. Sam tore himself from Dean's hands, twisting to the side of the bed, and threw up.

Dean's voice droned on, folding itself around the ringing of the heart monitor as Sam tried to will the images out of his head. It wasn't until he registered on the word _ambulance_ that Sam realized he needed to pull himself together.

"No. No ambulance," he managed to gasp out, "Vision."

He heard Dean's swift intake of breath, then soothing hands on his back, rubbing gentle circles, some of the panicked urgency gone.

Finally, after what seemed a long time, Sam righted himself, swiping a hand across his mouth and pulling himself back until he was leaning against the wall at the head of the bed. He opened his eyes to the cruel light of the bedside lamp and Dean's worried face.

"I'm okay," he said, after another long moment.

Dean had his phone in his hand. "I'll call Bobby," he said, "He'll get someone on it."

Sam stared at him blankly for a moment before comprehension dawned. Vision equals death equals Sam and Dean to the rescue.

"Oh. No, Dean-"

Dean cut him off quickly and firmly, "No, Sam. We're not going driving round the country chasing your visions. Someone else can do it. We're staying here until you're better."

"No, I meant…" Sam trailed off. He couldn't tell Dean what he'd seen. He couldn't do that to his brother.

"I'll call Bobby," Dean insisted, thumb hovering over the phones keypad.

Sam shook his head, "No. You don't need to."

Dean frowned uncomprehendingly, "What did you see then?"

Sam opened his mouth, frantically searching his mind for something believable, but he wasn't fast enough. He saw realization dawn, the colour draining from Dean's face until he looked ashen in the dull light, his eyes fixed in a shade of horror.

"You… you saw…?"

"Yeah," Sam confirmed regretfully. He met Dean's gaze, suddenly overwhelmed by an irrational fear that Dean would give up on him. "But it doesn't mean anything, Dean. It's not… we've changed things before."

Dean couldn't seem to find words, which scared Sam more than he let on. Dean always found words. Dean raged and ranted and _talked_. Always talked. Dean was never speechless.

But Sam was tired. Too tired for this. And his head hurt. "Go back to bed, Dean. We can't do anything about it now anyway."

Dean slid off the bed and went back to his own. He settled himself under the covers before he spoke.

"I'm gonna fix this, Sam."

"I know," Sam said, even though he wasn't too sure.

**~~~~0000~~~~**

Dean wasn't looking so good. Not that Bobby had really expected the kid to be taking the best care of himself, what with the situation. He'd be running himself ragged trying to help Sam. Before he headed back to the salvage yard he'd be making damn sure that Dean got some sleep, whether he wanted to or not.

"Bobby," Dean breathed his name like a sigh of relief.

Poor kid, it had only been a few months since John's death. That boy had worshipped his father, and, still reeling, he now had the possibility of losing the last of his family dumped on his shoulders. He must have been terrified.

There was a time and place for those chick flick moments Dean always shied away from so Bobby didn't hesitate before pulling the younger hunter into a hug. He kept it brief, with a manly slap on the back, and pulled away, holding the kid at arms length to run a critical eye over him.

"You look like hell, boy."

Dean shrugged out of his hold, "Nice to see you too, Bobby. You bring the books?"

Kid had a one track mind when it came to his brother. Bobby went and fetched the stack of books from his truck, returning with arms laden.

"How's Sam doing?" he asked as he stepped into the motel room.

The lighting in the room was dim, the TV flickering soundlessly. Bobby had spent his share of time in dingy motel rooms but it honestly didn't seem fair that Sam should be battling cancer in a room with mould on the ceilings, nicotine-yellow walls with peeling wallpaper, less than ideal beds and some rather questionable stains on the carpet. Bobby decided he was definitely checking them into a higher quality motel sometime soon.

Dean shrugged, "He's sleeping."

Bobby added the books he was carrying to the already sizable pile on the table before he turned to look at the youngest Winchester.

Sam was curled on his side, his mop of dark hair disheveled, resting his head on an arm. Bobby could see the Hickman catheter that Dean had told him about in strained whispers, just visible over the collar of his t-shirt.

Sam looked… sick was the only way to describe it. His face was pale but slick with cold sweat. He'd lost weight, and the last time Bobby had seen the kid he hadn't had much to lose.

It just didn't seem right, visiting the Winchester boys and not hearing their usual lighthearted banter, seeing Dean standing there silently without a trace of his usual cocky grin, and Sam, poster boy of sleepless nights, dead to the world at barely midday.

The Winchester boys could fill a whole damn cavern with their presence. Dean was loud and seemed to have a case of nearly permanent cabin fever, always on the move, teasing Sam mercilessly, drinking and chasing girls, and Sam could be just as loud, arguing back with Dean until he got his point across, getting excited over a breakthrough in a case. It was just so damn wrong to see both brothers so quiet, the room seeming much larger than usual.

Dean came to stand next to Bobby at the foot of Sam's bed, washing a hand down his face.

"He had chemo this morning, so he wont really be up for much. He's probably just gonna be sleeping or throwing up."

Bobby nodded, "Yeah, figured as much."

He eyed Sam thoughtfully, "You're sure this ain't some sort of curse? What were you hunting before he got sick?"

"Did a couple of salt and burns, poltergeist before that. A shapeshifter. I checked everywhere for hex bags, Bobby. It's just…"

_Cancer._

"Alright," Bobby focused himself, "Just because there ain't a supernatural cause doesn't mean there's not a supernatural cure."

He moved over to the table and pulled up a chair. He'd opened a book and skimmed the first passage before he realized that Dean hadn't moved.

"Dean?"

He watched the younger mans shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath. Nothing much fazed Dean, unless his brother was in trouble.

"I hate this," Dean said, without turning round.

Bobby swept his gaze over Sam's sleeping figure. It was a morose sight. He sighed heavily.

"You and me both, kid."

**~~~~0000~~~~**

A soft murmur of voices welcomed Sam back to the world of the awake. He half listened, eyes still closed, warm inside his nest of blankets. He lay there a moment, drifting, until the voices became familiar.

He opened his eyes to see Bobby seated at the small table, head bent over a large, ancient-looking book. Dean was already making his way over to him. How did he always know when he was awake?

"Hey," Dean said, crouching down so that they were face to face, "Bobby's here."

Sam nodded wearily, moving to sit up. Dean moved with him, rearranging pillows so that he could lean back comfortably. It was nice to know that they weren't out of sync, that they still acted and reacted together, as if they were two halves of a whole. Sam had wondered, in the early days after John's death, whether they had been bent so far out of shape that they didn't fit together anymore. He tossed the wayward thought aside quickly.

"You okay? Not gonna barf?"

Sam shook his head. Dean hovered for a moment, hand over the small trash bin, ready to grab it quick if Sam changed his mind, then relaxed, moving back to sit on his own bed.

Bobby stood, one arm raised to straighten his baseball cap, and took Dean's place at the bedside, leaning over to pull Sam into a hug. Sam pretended he couldn't tell that Bobby was being extra careful with him, as if he'd break.

"Good to see you, Sam."

"Good to see you too, Bobby." And it was. Really good. After John's death, and their subsequent extended stay at the salvage yard, Bobby had shifted up the ranks from friend to family. And his extensive knowledge of all things supernatural didn't hurt either.

Sam looked past the older man to the haphazard collection of old books, worn and yellowing, on the table. "You guys find anything?"

Bobby and Dean exchanged a look that Sam read clear as anything. He didn't really need to hear them say it.

"Not yet," Bobby admitted, "But we've only just started."

Sam nodded. There really wasn't anything to say.

"We'll find something," Dean said decisively, "Soon."

Sam nodded again. "What time is it?" he asked, looking towards the pulled curtains.

Dean flipped his arm over to look at his watch, "Almost seven. You up for some food?"

Sam groaned, covering his face with his hands, his stomach flipping at the mere thought of it.

"You have to eat," he heard Dean say, "You need your strength. Even the doc said you'd feel better if you ate."

"Throwing up does _not_ make me feel better," he muttered.

"I'll get you something. What d'you want?" Dean pushed.

Sam battled with the urge to pull the blankets over his head. He may have if he actually thought it would make Dean back down.

"I'll be right back," Dean said, as if Sam had agreed. His brother, the food Nazi. "Can you keep an eye on him?"

This drew Sam's hands away from his face, "I don't need Bobby to keep an eye on me. I'm sick, not five years old," he grumbled.

Dean was shrugging into his jacket. "Geez, Sam, cranky much?" he teased lightly.

Sam glared at him.

"I'll be right back," Dean said again, and Sam tried not to let on how much that reassured him. Sick, not five years old, he reminded himself. Nonetheless, he couldn't help tracking his brother's progress to the door or the sudden pang of unreasonable loss that hit him when the door closed, Dean on the opposite side.

It reminded him of when he was sick as a child, unwilling to let his father console him, keeping up a steady litany of _"Want Dee!"_ until John gave in and allowed Dean, who was always hovering nearby when Sam was sick, into the room. He thought he'd grown out of that when he was nine.

"Your brother's only trying to help, Sam," Bobby's voice broke him out of his thoughts. "You do need to eat."

This time Sam really did pull the blankets over his head, "Don't you start too."

He must have fallen asleep. Again. He was really getting sick of this whole can't-stay-awake business. The next thing he knew Dean was back and waving something in front of his face.

"It's just a muffin, Sam. Think you can handle it?"

"No," Sam muttered grouchily. Couldn't Dean have just let him sleep?

Dean's face brightened in amusement, "Come on, sit up."

Sam did, and took the muffin. Resigned, he began dissecting it, breaking it into pieces.

"Eat it, Sam, don't play with it."

"Shut up," Sam said, but popped a bit into his mouth anyway, chewing slowly. "Where's Bobby?"

Dean plunked himself down at the table. The smell of whatever he was eating made Sam's stomach lurch, threatening to expel the one bite of muffin. He tried to breathe through his mouth, averting his eyes.

"Outside, making phone calls."

"More healers?"

Dean shrugged, "Maybe. Better be the real deal this time."

"Cecelia was the real deal."

Dean's mouth set in a hard line, "She was just more convincing than the other one. Still a fake."

Sam frowned at him, "Couldn't you feel it? She had some kind of… aura or something."

Dean shook his head tensely, "Fake, Sammy."

Sam dropped it. Maybe it was easier for Dean to pretend that Cecelia hadn't been able to help because she was a fraud. Sam kind of wished she'd been a fraud too.

Dean finished his food in silence before registering the empty muffin wrapper on Sam's bed. His face lit up.

"See, Sammy, told you you could handle it."

Sam also kind of wished that his stomach hadn't chosen that exact moment to revolt.

**~~~~0000~~~~**

Bobby was sitting at the table, going through a very old book about some much older magick, Dean at his side, when Sam's cry from behind them jolted them from their research.

Bobby turned in time to see Sam's expression go blank, his arms dropping limply from where they had previously cradled his head.

Dean was at Sam's side in a flash but instead of the panic Bobby expected, he just knelt down and gripped Sam's shoulders, apparently… waiting.

"What's going on?" Bobby asked, standing and taking a few bewildered steps towards the boys.

"It's a vision," Dean said tightly, his eyes searching Sam's face intently.

Oh. Bobby had never seen Sam having one before, only been told the vaguest details, and he had to admit that seeing Sam suddenly check out, unreachable, his eyes moving as he watched something no one else could see, was more than a little unnerving.

"A vision," Bobby repeated, at a complete loss for what to do. He wondered whether Dean felt as helpless as he did.

It was a long four or five minutes before Sam snapped back to reality, face awash with grief and panic. Dean was upon his younger sibling immediately, gently pushing him down on the bed when it looked as though he would faint, one hand brushing through his hair, and Bobby heard a soft, soothing, "It's okay, we can change it. We'll change it, Sam."

After another long few minutes and some more hushed words, Dean returned to his chair and his book. Sam rolled over so that he was facing away from them, feigning sleep, and Bobby stayed where he was, turning his gaze from one Winchester to the other in puzzlement.

"I can go check it out," he offered eventually.

Dean looked up at him. "Check what out?" he asked, his puzzlement matching Bobby's and making the older hunter even more confused.

"The vision," he elaborated, "What Sam saw. I can follow up on it for you. Or contact someone else?"

What, were they just ignoring Sam's visions now? Sure, they had a lot on their plates right now, but… Dean had assured Sam that they'd change it, right?

Dean snapped his book shut and took up another one in its place. "There's nothing to check out," he said flatly.

Winchester avoidance. Huh.

"I thought you said these visions were always about death?" Bobby questioned. He must have been missing something. They weren't just going to let someone die…?

Dean bent further over his book, pointedly ignoring him.

"It's me."

Bobby turned away from Dean's back, toward the bed to stare at Sam's back instead.

"What?" he asked.

"It's me," Sam said, his voice just as flat as Dean's had been. "The visions are of me dying."

Bobby felt his stomach drop. This just kept getting better and better.

TBC

**A/N: Hope you liked! Please tell me what you thought. Some good news, I've finished writing the story, so now I just have to type up the remaining chapters! Yay! There will continue to be at least one new post a week, if I can find the time. Thanks for reading everyone!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Fade**

**A/N: Thanks again to everyone who has reviewed so far (and a special mention to Madebyme who always leaves such fantastic feedback!)**

**Um, guess I should warn for drug use in this chapter, but it's very light. Nothing to be terribly concerned about.**

**Chapter Six**

On Wednesday, Sam threw up all over Dean in the back seat of the Impala while Bobby drove them back from the hospital.

"Ew, Sammy." Dean crinkled his nose distastefully but didn't loosen his hold on his younger brother. The chemo sessions got worse every time, Sam's body reacting almost instantly to the new chemicals poured on top of the old ones accumulating in his blood.

It was torture. For him and Sam. Watching Sam sweat and retch his way through two hours of poison, clinging to Dean in a way he hadn't since childhood; God, it was killing him.

"Sorry," Sam mumbled, face buried in Dean's shoulder.

"When you get better, you so owe me," Dean said, but he couldn't put any of the usual force into the threat. He just wanted Sam to get better, full stop.

"'kay," Sam said vaguely, and Dean got the feeling that he wasn't really listening, that he couldn't listen when he felt as sick as he did.

They got to the motel without any further episodes, and Dean carefully and slowly moved Sam from the back seat to the bathroom, waving off Bobby's attempts to help.

"I've got him," he said, and Bobby had the sense to back off, instead gathering together supplies to clean the Impala. Dean didn't think he'd ever stop being grateful for Bobby's help.

"Aren't they giving you something at the hospital to stop you from barfing?" he asked as he eased Sam onto the bathroom floor.

"Not working," Sam said, and, as if to prove it, as if simply talking was too much, he leant over the toilet bowl and threw up again.

"How're you even finding anything to throw up anyway?" Dean asked, on his knees next to Sam. He placed a reassuring hand on the back of his younger brother's neck, the other rubbing up and down his back, trying to still the tremors.

Sam spat a few times and then wearily rested his head on an arm, eyes closed, "Maybe if you didn't keep forcing food on me I'd be able to stop."

"Gotta eat, Sammy."

Sam apparently still had the strength to raise his middle finger.

**~~~~0000~~~~**

Dean tried dry toast and crackers, ginger ale, plain sandwiches and cereal.

When none of that worked, he moved on to soup and salads, protein shakes, Gatorade. Nothing stayed down. Sam was still loosing weight and Dean was spending a fortune (of Bobby's money) on food just to have it flushed down the toilet.

Another week passed. Another round of chemo. Days went by without food. None of the books Dean and Bobby searched through vigorously held any hint of a way to cure Sam, no one they called had any answers.

The vision's came and went. Sam refused to talk about them. In fact, Sam didn't talk much at all now. He thanked Bobby when he moved them into a slightly better motel, the older hunter insisting that he had more than enough money from the salvage yard to front them for a while, refused food, barely kept down water, and replied to anything asked to him with mostly monosyllabic answers.

As the days passed, Dean watched the shadows darken under Sam's eyes. He slept most of the time now, too exhausted for anything else, while Dean and Bobby worked into the wee hours of the morning, running on black coffee and desperation.

Sam was losing it; maybe even giving up (a thought that terrified), and Dean didn't know what to do. What he did know, was that he had to do something fast.

**~~~~0000~~~~**

Sam woke on Friday – or was it Saturday? Whatever, it was a day that he didn't have to go get poison fed down the stupid tube in his chest so that was good enough – and immediately knew that something was going on because Dean was grinning the way he did when he was up to something.

Sam almost decided to go back to sleep because he didn't want to know what Dean was happy about unless it was a cure, which Sam highly doubted. In fact, Sam highly doubted that Dean would find a cure at all. The visions spoke volumes and they said that there wasn't anything for them to find. If there were, he wouldn't be being tortured by images of a beaten, broken Dean crying at his deathbed.

But curiosity won and he managed a vaguely interested, mainly irritable, "What?"

Dean grinned wider, looking terribly pleased with himself, and proclaimed, "Found the answer, Sammy. Gonna get you eating again."

Sam groaned, reconsidering his interest. Maybe he could just pretend to sleep until Dean gave up…

Dean caught his attention by holding up something that looked like a cigarette but…. in a dodgy kind of way. For one, it was too big to be a normal cigarette and had no filter, just rolled up cardboard.

"Is that a joint?" Sam asked incredulously, sitting up a bit, his plan of ignoring Dean forgotten.

"Medicinal marijuana, Sammy," Dean said smugly.

"It's Sam," Sam corrected automatically.

Dean ignored him, "It's an anti-nauseant _and_ it'll give you the munchies. Win-win."

"Where did you even get it?" Sam shook his head. Maybe he shouldn't be that surprised. This _was_ Dean, after all.

Dean tapped the side of his nose, "It's all about who you know." He held the joint out to Sam, "Go on then."

Sam frowned, unsure, "I dunno."

"Oh, _come on_, Sam! You never got stoned before?"

Sam hesitated and Dean looked honestly stunned, "Wait, really?"

Sam rolled his eyes, "I _did_ go to college, remember?"

Dean looked relieved, "Good. Geez, Sammy, you almost had me thinking I raised you wrong."

"Stop calling me Sammy."

Dean just grinned and flourished a lighter.

Fifteen minutes later, Sam was feeling… weird. Kind of tingly and warm. A bit float-y. He wouldn't have minded if Dean wanted to call him Sammy just then, because Dean was right, he didn't feel anywhere near as sick as before.

It was kind of hard to concentrate on what Dean was saying, but that was okay because he had the feeling that Dean was also finding it kind of hard to concentrate on what he was saying. Sam laughed, at nothing really, but Dean's face sort of lit up at the sound so that was okay, too.

"What in blue blazes are you boys doing?"

Both brothers turned towards the, now open, door. Bobby sniffed experimentally, his face warring between stunned exasperation and amusement.

"It's medicinal!" Dean proclaimed with a grin, waving the half-smoked joint in the air.

Bobby's face settled on amused, "You're not sick."

Dean just shrugged, more at ease than Sam had seen him in a long time, and waved Bobby off, stating, in complete disagreement with his demeanor, "I'm stressed."

Bobby shook his head in mock exasperation and Sam grinned. He was struck by a sudden wondering of what his dad would have done had he walked in on him and Dean smoking pot and barely managed to stop himself from bursting into hysterics. The loss of his father didn't feel so sharp at this moment.

"You, kid, must be stoned," Bobby grinned at him, "That's the first time I've seen you smile since I got here."

"We'll have to get more, ay, Sammy?" Dean winked.

Sounded like a good idea, if only to see Dean without that mask of carefully controlled panic.

"Hey, Dean?" Sam said.

"Yeah?"

"I'm hungry."

Dean looked like all his Christmases had come at once, which made Sam want to laugh again.

"Well, that definitely calls for celebration," Bobby announced, before he leant forward and plucked the joint from Dean's hand, taking a long drag.

Sam and Dean stared at him in stunned amazement.

Bobby exhaled, blowing out a long stream of the pungent smoke. "What?" he asked innocently, his amusement growing

Sam couldn't help it. He cracked up, and Dean quickly followed.

**~~~~0000~~~~**

Dean couldn't believe it. He finds something to help Sam feel better and the hospital immediately finds something to make him feel worse.

"Cerubidine," Catherine said, "Just a little kick."

Apparently, 'a little kick' in cancer-speak meant another hour at the hospital and another bag of poison.

"Why?" Sam asked, chewing on his thumb nail (another habit from childhood, Dean noted) as he watched Catherine hooking the IV bag up.

"The cancer's a bit more aggressive than we thought, that's all," Catherine said gently, but she shot Dean a look that said otherwise – one that Sam would have noticed a few months ago, but things can change terribly in even a short amount of time and Sam didn't pay much attention to anything these days – and said casually, "Doctor Harper wants to talk to you, by the way, Dean."

After Bobby had assured him that he was perfectly capable of sitting with Sam for a few minutes, and yes, he would come fetch Dean immediately if needed, Dean allowed Catherine to lead him to Doctor Harper's office.

"Have a seat, Dean."

Doctor Harper's office was cozier than most that Dean had seen, and judging by the photograph on her wall showing two smiling children she was indeed someone's mother, as Dean had previously surmised. The older woman scribbled a few notes on a piece of paper before looking up at her visitor.

"What is it?" Dean asked as soon as she turned her attention to him.

Dr. Harper lost her welcoming smile, her face switching to serious and professional in an instant.

"I'm told that you don't like to beat around the bush, Dean, so I'll give it to you straight. It's not working."

Dean stared at her. "What do you mean, it's not working?"

Dr. Harper sighed, "Sam's platelets are at 52 thousand. They should be climbing up to 100."

"What does that mean?"

"It means it's not working. Normal on the low side is 200."

Dean ground his palms into his eyes before speaking, "You mean, I've been bringing him here every week so you can poison him, and it's not even _working_?"

"Sometimes it doesn't," Dr. Harper said frankly, "He needs more chemo."

Dean set his jaw, "No. No more chemo. God, he's sick enough as it is."

"Sick's better than dead, Dean," Dr. Harper said, firmly but not harshly.

Dean felt the fight flow out of him, leaving him with surprisingly little. Poison Sam to save him. Save Sam or kill him – his father's last words took on a whole new meaning. This was so messed up.

"Dean," Dr. Harper caught his attention. "We need to start thinking about a bone marrow transplant."

"He can have mine," Dean said immediately. No need to think about it.

"It's not as simple as that. There are tests that need to be done, to make sure you're a match."

"I'm his brother."

"Which means there's a good chance you'll be a perfect donor, but we need to make sure."

"Well, do it then."

Dr. Harper nodded solemnly, "I'll start making arrangements."

Dean stood to leave, eager to get out of the office that didn't seem so cozy anymore.

"Dean."

Dean forced himself to turn back and look at her. She was standing now, too.

"This is to help him, not hurt him," she said gently, "We're doing everything we can. Next week, bring him in on Thursday as well. We'll see how he does."

Dean ran a hand through his hair, huffing out an exhale. Dr. Harper reached out and squeezed his shoulder and he found himself frantically blinking back the burning sensation in his eyes.

He had to wait a good five minutes before he felt together enough to go back to Sam.

**~~~~0000~~~~**

Bobby watched the Winchester boys from his place in their motel room doorway.

Dean sat in the Impala's rear foot well, half in, half out of the car, talking softly to Sam who was sprawled on the back seat, eyes closed.

Sam had lost too much weight – Bobby was willing to bet that he could touch his thumb and middle finger together around his wrists – and Dean had dropped several pounds himself.

There were only a few books left to search and Bobby couldn't help the sense of failure creeping over him. Those boys were almost like sons to him. Darn it, they _were_ like sons to him. Losing Sam wasn't an option. They were going to find something, even if he had to exhaust his whole damn library of books, which, at this point, may actually be his only option. Trawl through everything.

"You ready to get up?" Dean's soft voice carried across to him.

"Yeah."

Bobby barely heard the whispered reply but he knew well enough not to offer his services. Dean needed to do this, look after Sam now, because it was fast becoming the only thing he could do.

Maybe there just wasn't a supernatural cure. Maybe they were just wasting their time, and Sam's.

**~~~~0000~~~~**

Sam half-sleeps, half-aware that Dean's tracing protective sigils on his open palm. He's been hurting for so long that he almost can't remember what it was like before.

How was it possible to feel this sick? He couldn't ever think of a time he'd felt this sick. He wasn't supposed to be this sick. He was supposed to get over it. Winchester's always got over it, but then, Sam supposed, he'd never really been that good at being a Winchester from the start. He'd never been interested in hunting, didn't get along with John, left when he should have stayed, maybe stayed when he should have left, tried to be something else, someone else. He'd killed his mother and then Jess.

Maybe this was just karma.

"Hey, Sammy?"

Sam opens his eyes to look up at Dean. "Mm?"

"Stop thinking so loud and get some rest."

"'kay."

Sam closes his eyes and drifts again.

**~~~~0000~~~~**

"Eat, Sam."

"I'm not hungry."

"Doesn't matter. You need the strength."

"Not hungry."

"Don't care. Eat."

Sam scowled. Dean had stopped finding Sam's belligerence amusing a long time ago and had resigned himself to the daily battle of near force-feeding.

"It's just soup, Sam."

"_No_, Dean."

"You have to eat something."

"What's the point?"

Dean set his face, hoping he looked determined, rather than desperate, "The point, Sam, is for you to actually have some fuel to keep you going. You're running on empty."

He got the feeling that desperation was beating determination in the war over his facial features, but apparently desperate worked. Sam, huddled on the bed wearing Dean's hoodie – and how the hell did it manage to look so big on him?! – studied Dean for a moment, before finally accepting the mug of soup. He sniffed it suspiciously and wrinkled his nose.

"Dean-"

"Eat!"

Sam scowled again but raised the cup to his lips and took a small sip. Immediately, he gagged and spun for the rubbish bin but Dean blocked him.

"Don't throw it up," he ordered in his best John Winchester imitation.

Sam's eyes widened in a mix of hurt and disbelief as he swallowed hard, trying to regain control.

"Keep eating."

"Dean," Sam pleaded.

"I said, keep eating!"

Sam looked close to tears, which wrenched something inside of Dean, but he couldn't just stand back and let his brother fade away. He had to fight, for Sam, because Sam was too ravaged by cancer and chemo to do it himself.

Sam choked down another sip. Dean didn't move, didn't back down.

"More."

"Dean." It was Bobby's voice this time. Dean spun to find the older man at his shoulder. "Stop."

"He has to eat!" Dean cried. He could tell he was going too far but Sam was _dying_ and he couldn't do anything to stop it. He could make him eat though.

"You're going to make him sick."

"He's already sick!" Dean insisted, hearing the break in his voice and ignoring it. He snatched the mug from Sam and pressed it to his brother's lips, sloshing soup onto the bedspread. He tilted it, trying to force the broth into his mouth. Sam choked and sputtered, spitting the offending food out.

"Damn it, Sam, eat!"

"I can't!" Sam cried.

"Dean, stop! Now!" Bobby roared.

With an unintelligible grunt, Dean threw the mug at the wall. It shattered in a sudden tinkling spray of broken porcelain and soup.

Dean stalked to the door but didn't make it outside before he heard Sam begin to retch, throwing up what little soup managed to make it down his throat. He did, however, make it before Sam or Bobby could see the wetness on his cheeks.

TBC

**A/N: Things get pretty intense from here on. There will be a total of 10 chapters, so get ready for the final ride! I should probably issue a tissue warning too, seeing as I've already upset a few of you (sorry!! I don't know what's wrong with me!)**


	7. Chapter 7

**Fade**

**A/N: I told one lovely reviewer that I'd hand out free tissues at the beginning of this chapter. Sounds like I've already managed to have some of you reaching for them, so *free tissues here***

**Warning for a little bit of swearing, but that's Dean for you.**

**And Bobby fans, he'll be back! Don't worry; he can't stay away for too long.**

**Chapter Seven**

Bobby left at the end of the week, the books he and Dean had been searching through exhausted, with no hint of a cure.

"Just hang in there," he had said to both brothers before giving them both a hug each. Not their usual way of saying goodbye but then, Sam didn't usually have cancer so Dean figured that was okay. "I got plenty more books at home and a lot more people to contact."

Dean had apologized for his meltdown, and Sam said it was fine, but he probably would have felt better if Sam had had the energy to be pissed at him.

Now it was back to the two of them, not back to normal because nothing had been normal for a long time, but they were managing. Sam even seemed to be making more of an effort to eat, or maybe he was just worried Dean would try to shove food down his throat again.

With that embarrassing and guilt-ridden thought, Dean ducked his head back down and tried to concentrate on the weapons he was cleaning. They might not be hunting at the moment but that was no reason to get slack. Besides, there was something soothing in the repetitive motions.

"Oh," came Sam's soft surprised voice from behind him.

_Vision_, Dean thought, but when he wheeled around Sam's eyes were still clear and he wasn't clutching his head. Instead, he was sitting cross-legged on his bed, laptop in front of him, and his eyes were fixed on the clump of dark hair in his hand.

There was almost an ice age of silence as Dean frantically searched for something to say. There was nothing. No words to make this better. Sam wasn't six years old anymore, a hug didn't make things okay again and he couldn't just say 'it's all gonna be alright,' and have Sam believe him like he would have back then.

Finally, he turned and rummaged through his duffle, settling on a simple, "Here," as he tossed Sam a black beanie.

He waited, expecting Sam to say something, but the youngest Winchester just sat there, fingering the beanie, his face a mix of shocked devastation, not looking at Dean. Dean opened his mouth, and then closed it again, and eventually, he tuned back to the weapons, retrieving the knife he'd been sharpening.

"You wanna shave my head?"

Dean nearly sliced himself as, again, he spun around to face Sam. Did he hear that right?

"What?"

Sam glanced up at him, his gaze skittering away just as fast, "Do you want to shave my head?"

Okay, so, yes, he had heard it right, but…

"You serious?"

Sam shrugged, the devastated look replaced by a carefully controlled blankness, "You and Dad always said I needed a hair cut."

Dean wavered uncertainly. He got the feeling that Sammy was trying very hard not to think, not to feel. And now that he thought about it, he realized that Sam had been doing that the whole time, right since the beginning. Hell, _he'd_ cried before Sam and that was just wrong. In fact, Sam hadn't cried at all. He did the chemo, slept, threw up, stopped talking. Just did it, and tried not to think about. Tried not to accept it.

A pillow sailed through the air, missing Dean by inches.

"Just do it, Dean," Sam said, sounding small and resigned.

So Dean got up, feeling curiously like he was moving on autopilot as he went to the bathroom to get the electric razor. Damn it, this was wrong. He should have fixed this already. He should have fixed this weeks ago. Before it came to this. This just sucked out loud.

Finally, Dean made his way out of the bathroom, clippers in hand, wondering at the irony of it. So many times he'd threatened Sam with buzz cuts, and now, he could barely bring himself to go anywhere near Sam's hair, didn't want to do this to Sam.

"You're sure about this?" he asked uncertainly, eyeing Sam's mop of dark hair.

Sam ran a hand through it, another clump coming away easily.

"Yeah," he said quietly.

Dean felt his heart clench for his little brother. If he thought this sucked out loud for him, it had to suck all the way to next week for Sam.

"I could give you a Mohawk," Dean suggested, trying to lighten the mood as he dragged a chair over to the linoleum of the kitchen.

Sam's lips twitched in the ghost of a smile but it didn't reach his eyes.

"You're really sure?" Dean asked again once Sam was settled in the chair in front of him.

"Just do it," Sam said.

"Okay."

Dean clicked the electric razor on. Placing a hand on the side of Sam's head, fingers brushing over his cheek, to steady and to comfort, he got to work.

Sam sat still and silent, the only noise came from the buzzing of the clippers as Dean carefully ran them over his head, shearing off layers of thick hair.

Dean tried to keep his mind blank, but the thoughts just kept slipping through. Here was yet another piece of evidence to add to the pile that screamed, _Sam's dying_, along with the puking and weight loss and that stupid Hickman thing. How was this fair? Sam didn't deserve this.

Finally the floor was covered in hair. Dean brushed a few wayward strands from Sam's shoulders before circling the chair.

"It actually doesn't look too bad," he offered, which was a bit of a lie really because, wrapped up in Dean's too-big hoodie that did nothing to hide how much weight he'd lost, combined with the long-lasting effects of the drugs, Sam looked like a junkie, or a cancer patient.

Sam made a face and ran a hand over his head, then pulled the beanie on.

"You're not gonna look at it?" Dean asked.

Sam shook his head tightly.

Dean sighed, sinking down to one knee in front of his brother. "Sam, if you need to…"

He wasn't sure what he was going to follow that with. Lose it? Freak out? But it turned out that that was permission enough for Sam (as if he needed permission) because, without knowing exactly how it happened, Dean found himself on the floor, surrounded by tufts of hair, with Sam curled half on his lap, crying for the first time since this nightmare began.

**~~~~0000~~~~**

There are a lot of things that Sam can't stand even the smell of anymore.

McDonalds, KFC, meat pies, eggs, bacon and, most recently, coffee. Everything Dean likes Sam can't stand, but he can't help it. He imagines that he can smell the chemicals leeching out of his skin and he can't stand the smell of that either. He can't stand the smell of the hospital, the smell of the motel room, and he can't stop throwing up.

Sam spends hours on the bathroom floor, wrapped up in Dean's hoodie and beanie. When he's feeling okay, he plays cards with Dean but he can't concentrate long enough to play poker so they play endless games of Go Fish and Last Card. Sometimes Dean buys more pot and they get stoned but it just makes Sam fall asleep now.

When Sam's not feeling okay, which is every Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, sometimes Friday too, he doesn't do anything. Dean doesn't do anything. They half watch bad daytime television. Sam throws up the Gatorade Dean makes him drink, throws up spit and stomach acid when that's gone because his body insists that it's being poisoned and has to get it out.

Sam knows that it won't work. There's no escape because he's Sam Winchester and he's cursed, because nothing good ever happens to him, apart from Dean and Dean's not a superhero, no matter what he believed when he was five.

Sometimes, he wants his Dad, which he finds strange because his Dad was never good in these kinds of situations and they probably argued more often than they talked. Sam wants him anyway.

Other times, he wants his Mum, which he finds even stranger because he doesn't know her, can't imagine what she'd do to help him, can barely remember her face, which he only knows from old photographs. He still wants her anyway.

Mostly though, Sam just wants Dean, because no matter how many things Sam can't stand anymore, he can still breathe in the scent of leather and gunpowder and peanut M&Ms, and feel better.

**~~~~0000~~~~**

They rang on Sunday, which was Sam's best day of the week, except that it was the day before Monday, which meant the cycle was about to start again. Sam thought there might be something morbidly humorous in that – his best day that was still filled with dread and illness.

"What the hell do you mean?"

Sam rolled over on the bed to look at Dean, who was pacing back and forth in front of the door, his cell phone crushed to his ear, free hand curled into a fist. Sam wondered vaguely what the hell who meant.

"That doesn't… what the hell… How can I not be a match?!"

Oh. That's what the hell someone meant. Figures. Sam thought there also might be something darkly humorous in that. Sometimes, especially while growing up, he and Dean had seemed almost like one person, two halves of a whole. On hunts they moved as one, they could read each other's expressions and body language and know how the other was feeling just as easy as if they were feeling it themselves. They sometimes finished each other's sentences and often spoke in unison.

And yet, Dean wasn't a match.

Figures.

Sam listened to Dean's less than polite goodbye, watched him pull the phone away from his ear and curl his fingers around it, staring at it as if it had bad-mouthed their mother, squeezing so tight that the cell was in danger of being crushed in his grip.

"It's okay," Sam said, wondering where Dean would find the money to buy a new one. They would still be paying off their debt to Bobby when they were in their fifties.

Dean spun, "Okay?! Sam, none of this is okay! Nothing's fucking okay, okay?"

Sam startled at the unexpected venom in Dean's voice. "Okay," he said.

Dean turned his glare on Sam, who held his hands up in surrender. "You said it first."

"God damn it!" Dean spun again, reaching for his jacket before stopping, mid-reach, and then withdrawing his hand.

Sam sighed, "You can go out if you want, Dean. I'll be o… fine."

"I'm not leaving you alone," Dean grunted, his face tight with tension.

Sam rolled his eyes, "I'm not five years old, Dean."

Apparently, that was the wrong thing to say. Dean exploded.

"You have _cancer_, Sam! You've got fucking _cancer_!"

"I've noticed!" Sam cut in, trying to stop Dean's rant because he got too worked up. "And it's not going to go away just because you're refusing to let yourself blow off steam."

"You want me to leave?" Dean challenged.

_Oh, for Christ sake_… Sam felt his temper flare. God, he was sick and tired – literally – and he just didn't want to do this right now. Dean in a bad mood was just more than he could handle.

"Yes! Damn it, Dean, just get out of here for a while. Go have a few drinks, play pool, whatever, just calm down."

Dean Winchester, the man who never backs down. Even when he's got his head up his ass.

"Fine," he spat. "You can just look after yourself for a change."

Sam saw that Dean regretted his words immediately, but that didn't stop it from getting under his skin. He'd never asked Dean to look after him, and it wasn't his fault he was sick.

"Fine!"

They held a stand off, each staring the other down, but Winchesters are nothing if not stubborn. Sam saw it in Dean's face; he didn't want to leave, and when it came down to it, Sam didn't want him to either, but it didn't change the fact that Dean needed some relief. Being stuck in a motel room for any extended amount of time was hard for him, cancer-ridden little brother or no.

"Fine!" they both said together, and Dean grabbed his jacket, slamming the door after him.

**~~~~0000~~~~**

Dean found himself at a bar, which didn't surprise him, even if he'd had no idea where he was going when he left the motel in a huff.

The duke box was blaring _Iron Maiden_'s Can I Play With Madness, the girls were pretty and tipsy, which was always a good mix, and the beer was cheap. It was just about perfect. Would have been perfect if Sam was next to him complaining about the noise or the taste of the beer instead of back at the motel room dying of leukemia.

Okay, so it wasn't Sam he was mad at. He figured that Sam knew that, but he was still going to have to apologize when he got back. Seriously though, finding out that he wasn't a match? Talk about a kick in the teeth.

Dean took a swig of his beer. One drink, and then he'd go. Not quite drowning his sorrows, but Sam always said that sorrows could swim and, in this case, Dean was willing to concede.

"You look like you've got troubles."

Dean glanced sideways at the woman who had seated herself beside him.

"What makes you say that?" he asked, managing to make it come out as; _None of your business. _

Luckily, the lady could take a hint. She smoothed out her skirt and ran a hand through her hair. "Can I buy you a drink?"

Dean sighed heavily, turning to her. She was pretty, if not a little older than he'd usually go for, but this just really wasn't the time.

"Look, I'm not interested in…" he gestured at her vaguely, "I'm just trying to have a drink."

The woman laughed, taking Dean by surprise, "Geez, you try to do something nice. I'm not trying to get in your pants, dude. You just looked like you needed some company."

Dean rubbed a hand over his face, "Alright, sorry. I didn't mean…"

The woman waved a hand at him, "Don't worry about it." She gestured to the bartender, "Two beers."

Alright, so, two beers and then he'd go. Yup, just two beers.

An hour or two, and many beers, later Dean was beginning to change his mind about what he was interested in. Candice was funny, pretty hot in an older woman kind of way, and she drank beer, which was pretty much what he looked for in a girl. He was also doing a good job of not thinking about –

As if on cue, his phone rang. He disengaged himself from Candice and fished it out of his jacket pocket, answering without checking the Caller ID.

"You okay?" he asked gruffly.

"Where'd you go?"

"I'm just-" he broke off, listening to the clatter on the other end of the line; Sam dropping his cell phone. And then a moan.

Dean may have had a few drinks in him but straight away he felt stone-cold sober.

"Sam?" he barked out urgently, as soon as Sam was back breathing in his ear.

"Dean?"

Dean was already standing. Something was wrong.

"Hey, just hang on. I'll be right there." He shoved the phone back in his pocket and headed for the door.

"Is everything okay?" he heard Candice's voice behind him, but he was already at the door and then he was running.

By all rights, the journey back to the motel should have taken ten, maybe even fifteen, minutes. Dean did it in five. Struggling for breath, he crashed into the motel door, fumbling for his key, and stumbled into the room.

Panting, he looked around, finding empty beds, a soft murmur from the TV and no Sam.

Dean strode to the bathroom, pushing open the door. "Sam?"

Sam was curled against the bath, arms wrapped around his abdomen, head ducked down so Dean couldn't see his face. The cell phone lay on the tiles next to him. Dean kicked it away and crouched down beside his brother.

"Hey, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have stormed off like that."

One of Sam's hands moved, following Dean's voice to clench in his shirt.

"Hurts…" he mumbled.

"What hurts?"

Sam just moaned, trying to curl in tighter.

Dean crouched there for another moment, panic freezing him, before his brain kicked into gear and he was moving, pulling Sam up and bundling him into the Impala.

Dean jumped in and screeched out of the parking lot. Sam remained curled up, both arms still held tight around his stomach. As Dean watched, a rivulet of blood trickled from his nose. Dean pressed his foot flat on the accelerator.

He didn't think he'd ever driven as fast as he did then – and he's blasted several speed limits in his time – but it still seemed to take an age before he reached the hospital.

Sam was so light now, it hardly took any effort to carry him through the doors. He'd barely taken two steps inside before medical professionals were swooping down on him, prying Sam from his grasp and loading him onto a gurney, asking a million questions that Dean couldn't seem to answer.

"He's got leukemia," he heard himself say, and then Sam started screaming.

To Be Continued…


	8. Chapter 8

**Fade**

**A/N: Thanks once more for all the awesome reviews, and all the Fave's and Alerts. It's really appreciated.**

**I suppose I should take this time to say that, I **_**am**_** a fan of happy endings. Or at least, happy-ish endings. You gotta believe in miracles…**

**Chapter Eight**

Sam floated. A distant part of his mind registered morphine. A more prevalent part recognized Dean's absence. He wanted to ask for him. He could sense people moving around him, but he was drifting between sleep and wake, fading in and out, and he couldn't make his voice work.

Sam felt empty, lost without his brother's strong presence. He had nothing left to pull himself out of the void he was sinking in. He understood that he was in hospital, that something had happened, that… it was hard to follow his own trains of thought.

He remembered being given blue sickly sweet water and being told to drink it. He couldn't though; he just kept throwing it up. And Dean wasn't there to hold him steady, just the hands of nameless strangers that he didn't want.

At least he wasn't being ripped apart from the inside out anymore. The pain was a vague, far off memory now, enough so that he could almost imagine that it hadn't been real. In fact, he could almost believe that this whole thing had been nothing more than a horribly vivid daydream. Almost.

Dean. God, he wanted Dean. Why wasn't Dean here?

**~~~~0000~~~~**

Dean was getting ready to start throwing punches. He'd been waiting for an hour, sitting and foot-tapping, flicking sightlessly through out-dated magazines, standing and pacing, demanding answers from the duty nurse, receiving nothing, pacing some more, by the time Dr. Harper finally turned up, looking slightly frazzled and worn.

She held up a hand to halt Dean's immediate flow of questions and, reluctantly, he fell silent.

"He's okay," Dr. Harper assured first. Dean felt himself sag. He braced himself on the wall. An hour of uncertainty, of fear, just waiting, half expecting that when someone came he'd hear, 'I'm sorry. We did everything we could…"

"He's on a morphine drip," Dr. Harper continued, "He's not in any pain now."

"What happened?" Dean asked. He was too tired to demand. Too shaken by finding Sam on the bathroom floor, in pain, seeing him start to bleed. He was running out of time and he knew it. Sam was running out of time.

"The illness thinned his veins until they burst," Dr. Harper said quietly. "He hemorrhaged internally, causing the pain and bruising. It's stopped now."

Dean let out a shaky breath_. Bleeding internally_… He pushed himself off the wall, forcing himself to stand straight. He had to be strong. Had to look after Sammy.

"When can I take him home?"

Dr. Harper hesitated. She pushed some stray hair back behind her ear, as if stalling for time. "Dean… we misjudged. The cancer's too aggressive."

"What do you mean?" _The cancer's too aggressive_…

"He's reached blast crisis."

Dean felt the air rush out of the room.

"Okay," his voice sounded oddly calm. "Okay, so, give him another blood transfusion."

Dr. Harper gave him a small sad look. Why was she sad? It was_ his _Sam she was talking about. _His_ Sam that was dying.

"Did you hear what I said? Blast crisis. No red cells, no white. There's nothing left but black cancer. A blood transfusion won't fix this. He's already had three. He's not going home, Dean. It's time for In-House chemo."

**~~~~0000~~~~**

Seven days on, three days off. Three hours, three bags. Cytarabine, Cerubidine, VePesid. Then a new bag of Cytarabine that stayed attached for the whole seven days. Dean was left to wonder how things had gotten so much worse so fast.

"Is Bobby coming?" Sam asked as Dean made his way back to the bedside.

Sam's voice sounded scratched and wispy, probably had something to do with the tube that now snaked its way down his nose and throat, dispensing nutrients. Sam was too sick to eat, sometimes too sick to talk. The drugs were screwing with his memory too. Dean was impressed that Sam had remembered he'd gone to phone Bobby.

"Yeah. He's got more books for us to go through, and he's gonna stop in at a few places on the way."

Sam nodded vaguely, his face rubbing against the pillow. Sam didn't even have the energy to sit up anymore. He reached up to adjust his beanie.

Dean had to fight the urge to look away these days. He didn't want to see the tubes snaking down under the collar of Sam's hospital-white t-shirt, didn't know what to say to this thin, exhausted, dying version of his brother.

"Think you'll find something?"

Dean gripped the beds railing, "I know we will."

Sam sighed softly, "Good. 'Cause, Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"This really sucks."

Dean huffed a small humourless laugh, "I know."

"Dean?"

Dean had to lean in closer to hear Sam properly. "Yeah, Sammy?"

Sam made an effort to look him in the eye, dark hazels searching out his blue-greens. Even Sam's eyes weren't right anymore, clouded and dulled by drugs and exhaustion. "It's okay," Sam breathed, the simple act of speaking taking it's toll, "If you can't…"

Dean recoiled, "Oh, no you don't, Sam. I said I was gonna fix this and I will. You're not checking out on me. You're not dying."

"M'kay," Sam mumbled.

Dean leant forwards again, tracing his finger over Sam's palm, wards and protective sigils, watching as Sam slipped too easily into sleep.

"You're not dying," he said again, willing himself to believe it.

**~~~~0000~~~~**

Sam couldn't remember what day it was, but then, Sam couldn't remember much of anything anymore. He couldn't remember the nurses names, what the drugs they were giving him were called, how long he'd been in the hospital.

Maybe it was better this way. Dying by degrees didn't give you much worth remembering anyway.

Sam rolled over, eyes still shut, and felt a small tug in his chest. Okay, so, one of the bad seven days. Not that the three days break was much better. Everything had faded into cancer. Sam couldn't even imagine what it was like to not feel sick, to not be dying.

His face itched and he reached up to scratch at the tape holding the tubing to his cheek and a hand immediately covered his, pulling it away.

"Don't mess with it."

Sam opened his eyes, waited until the room stopped twirling.

"Itches," he complained to Dean.

Dean sighed and let go of his hand. Sam reached up again and scratched at the tape.

"Day is it?"

"You've already asked me that."

"Day?"

Dean sighed again, "It's Tuesday, Sam. Bobby will be here tomorrow."

Sam tried to think but his brain was still short-circuiting, "How long…"

Dean looked pained. If he looked closely Sam could see dark circles under his brother's eyes. Sam didn't look closely. There was nothing he could do about it anyway.

"Remember what I said about taking this one day at a time?" Dean started, deliberately dodging the question.

"How long?" Sam insisted, trying to shift slightly, sit up a bit as if to show Dean he could handle the answer. It was too hard. He resignedly lay still, instead focusing on staying awake.

Dean looked away. "You're on day two, Sammy. Five more days, then you can have another break."

"Can't be only day two," Sam whispered. It couldn't be. It wasn't this bad before, after two days. Dean had to be wrong.

Dean looked like someone was tugging on his lungs. He nearly choked on his words, "It is day two, Sammy. You remember how long you've been here?"

Frustrated tears burned his eyes. Sam shook his head.

"Nearly three weeks. You're on your third round. That's why you feel so bad."

The tears were threatening to overflow. Sam shut his eyes against them. It just didn't stop.

"Can't do five more days, De…"

He felt Dean's grip on his wrist. "Yeah, you can, Sammy. You can beat this."

"Thought you were gonna fix it," Sam mumbled. It wasn't an accusation, and he knew Dean would see it for what it was. A plea.

"I _am_ gonna fix this," Dean's not-so-steady voice assured.

"Can't do five more days."

Dean looked torn, tears of his own threatening. "You can, Sammy. You have to."

Five more days. Then a break and it starts all over again. God, he just couldn't do it. It was going to kill him.

"Dean, please," Sam whispered, totally not above begging at this point, "Please don't make me."

"Sam…"

Sam knew that tone. It was just as helpless as he felt. Neither of them had any control over this. The cancer was in charge.

**~~~~0000~~~~**

"Jesus," Bobby said.

Dean followed his gaze, "I know."

"He looks…" Bobby trailed off and Dean was glad because he knew how Sam looked. Hooked up to I.V.s, dramatically thin, closed eyes bruised and skin that was verging on gray, he looked half dead.

"I could have got here sooner. When you told me he was worse, I didn't realize…"

Dean caught the look in Bobby's eyes.

"He's not dying," he said fiercely.

Bobby focused. "No. Course not." He tore his gaze away from Sam. Dean understood the struggle. No longer was he battling the urge to look away. Instead, an irrational part of him insisted that if he took his eyes off Sam, something bad would happen, that he might look back and Sam would be gone.

"Saw a few people on the way up here," Bobby continued, still sounding shaken, "They're looking into things, keeping their ears open."

Dean swallowed, nodding, his gaze straying over Sam's sleeping figure again. God. They were running out of time.

"He asked me not to make him do it." The words were out before Dean had even realized what he was saying. "The chemo. God, Bobby, I can't stand seeing him like this, but I can't just…"

Bobby's hand found its way to his shoulder, squeezing firmly in a wordless show of support. And the simply gesture almost broke him. He was so sick of being strong. He wanted to sob and scream, yell at a God he didn't believe in, curse every demon, blame everyone who'd had a part in not giving Sam the normal life he should have had, himself included.

He would have traded anything, everything, his Dad's journal, the Impala, his whole life, if he could just turn back time.

But he couldn't. He had failed. He was failing. He couldn't save his Dad. And he couldn't save Sam.

**~~~~0000~~~~**

"Where's Dean?"

Bobby started, his thoughts – riddled with possible spells and healers – scattering as he looked down to see Sam awake, eyes still searching the room for his older brother.

"He went to get something to eat," Bobby said, "Couldn't convince him to go get some rest though, stubborn idjit."

Sam smiled tiredly. "Not surprised," he breathed out. Sam's voice was barely more than a whisper, and Bobby felt his stomach sink.

_You're too late_, murmured a forbidden corner of his mind, _There's no time_.

He pushed the thoughts away. He couldn't think like that. Certainly couldn't let Sam see it in his eyes. Not Dean either. They needed someone to stay strong.

"Bobby, can you… do something for me?"

Bobby had the feeling that whatever Sam was going to ask, he wasn't going to like it, but if that kid, his almost-son, needed something then damned if he was gonna deny him.

Sam went on, as if intent to get this out now. Bobby supposed that the kid knew, maybe better than any of them, that time was slipping away. "Can you… if you can't… Dean wont listen."

Bobby nodded, waiting.

"Can you… make sure he knows it's not his fault? If… you don't find anything. It's okay."

Bobby had to blink back tears. That was so damn like Sam, even dying he cared more about Dean than about himself. More worried about what Dean would do… after.

"Sure, kid," Bobby promised, through a clogged throat. "I can look after your brother for you."

Sam looked relieved. Bobby coughed, clearing his throat, "But I wont have to. We're gonna find something, Sam."

Sam nodded but Bobby could tell that he'd given up believing in the mantra. "I know," he said, "And Bobby…"

"Mm?"

"If you can't… it's not your fault either."

Bobby sat back, fighting tears. _Damn Winchesters_. "I know, Sam," he half lied, "I know."

**~~~~0000~~~~**

"What about this?"

Bobby took the book from Dean and skimmed over the page. He looked up at Dean, eyebrows raised.

"Dean-"

"It would work, wouldn't it?"

Bobby shook his head, "You know that stuff's not to be messed with. That's some heavy dark magick."

"But would it work?" Dean insisted.

"Dean-" Bobby tried again.

"Damn it!" Dean cursed, softly so as not to wake his sleeping sibling, "We're running out of time! We need to do something now!"

Bobby snapped the book shut. "And how do you think Sam would feel? Knowing that someone else died instead of him? How did _you_ feel, Dean?"

He saw Dean hesitate, "We wont tell him."

"That's not an answer."

"Well, what _is_ the answer?" Dean fumed, "'cause I don't see any other options."

Bobby opened his mouth to argue, but a soft whisper from the bed interrupted him.

"Dean… no."

Bobby turned. Sam looked barely conscious, eyes half open and unfocused.

Dean swallowed, "Sam…"

Sam was quiet for a moment, visibly trying to build up the energy to talk. "Dean… no," he whispered, searching his brother's eyes beseechingly.

Dean chewed on his lower lip, his face crumpling.

"Sam… I have to fix this. You can't… I'm going to fix this."

Sam shook his head slightly, his eyes closing for a moment. With effort, he opened them again.

"Fin' somethin' else… please."

Dean moved forward, determination leaving him. He couldn't deny a request from Sam. His throat worked as he sought for words.

"Okay… okay, I'll find something else, but Sammy, you have to hang on until I do. You _have_ to."

"'kay," Sam murmured, his eyelids sagging again.

"You have to promise, Sam."

Sam nodded, "Promise…"

And then he was asleep again, as he most often was these days, leaving Dean and Bobby to continue their search, growing each day a little more desperate, fighting to push away hopelessness, as time slowly ticked away.

**~~~~0000~~~~**

Sometimes when he woke, it was to Bobby's gravely voice, asking hushed questions to the nurses, talking to the doctor, murmuring encouragements that washed over him.

Occasionally he woke to the nurses fussing mutely around him, straightening pillows or checking blood pressure, tugging down the front of his t-shirt to inspect the Hickman.

Mostly though, Sam woke to Dean, talking softly, telling stories of their childhood, commenting on any hot nurses, or reading aloud from whatever book he was going through. Even when Sam woke to silence and dark, he could always reach out a hand and it would brush over soft hair; Dean asleep, head rested on his arms, curled on the bed by his side.

Everything filtered through a fog of morphine and whatever other drugs they were giving him, Sam could never tell how long he'd been sleeping, and he slipped from awareness to unconsciousness so easily he could barely differentiate from when he was awake and when he was dreaming.

He was tired. Tired of being sick and fighting against it, tired of the hospital and the drugs, and sometimes he wished that it would all just end so he wouldn't have to make the effort anymore.

It would be so easy to just let it all fade away… but he couldn't go without telling Dean that it was alright and it wasn't his fault and that he loved him, that he was sorry about breaking the promise to hang on, but any time he was awake he couldn't find the energy to form the words.

He was so tired, just so tired. Time and life were slipping away and there was still so much he needed to do and say.

Which was why Sam was devastated when he woke and, instead of Dean or Bobby, it was Jess at his bedside.

**TBC…**

**A/N: Two chapters left, everyone. Review! Come on, you know you want to!**


	9. Chapter 9

**Fade**

**A/N: This chapter's a bit shorter than the others. I tried to lengthen it a bit but I didn't want unnecessary stuff that's obviously just there to make the chapter longer. Hope you enjoy!**

**Oh, have some more free tissues, just in case you need them. I'll just put them over here…**

**Chapter Nine**

It's not looking good.

Sam's Hickman catheter becomes infected and the doctor forbids visitors for three days. Dean imagines his already sick and dying baby brother burning with fever with only strangers to look after him. He fumes and panics and can't do anything about it.

The infection clears but almost straight away someone coughs, and Sam, his body depleted of all antibiotics, gets sick. He has nothing left to fight off even a simple cold.

In the lungs, the infection quickly turns into pneumonia and Sam gives up breathing on his own. In a flurry of activity, the nurses try to nudge Dean and Bobby out of the room while the doctor intubates him. Dean wont leave but he can't watch. He just can't.

The monitors record almost no blood pressure, barely a pulse. The doctors are forced to halt the chemo and instead run antibiotics, glucose, morphine through the Hickman.

Dean and Bobby have to wear masks when they see Sam now. Dean sits at his bedside, face itching under the material, only leaving his post for bathroom breaks and even on those he hurries back, terrified that he's missing the last moments of his little brother's life.

"I know of someone."

Dean turned his mask-covered face to Bobby, standing framed in the doorway. The room was so small, so plain. A terrible place for someone to spend his or her last days. Dean hated it, with a passion. When this was over, _when Sam was better_, he was never going to step foot in a hospital ever again.

"Another healer?" he asked wearily.

Bobby nodded. "I just got off the phone. He's leaving in a couple of days, just needs to sort some things out before he heads here. He thinks he can help."

Dean couldn't bring himself to get his hopes up.

Bobby swept his gaze over Sam's limp form, lingering on the tube in his mouth that forced the artificial rise and fall of the youngest Winchester's chest. He's in Dean's hoodie again. Dean dressed him in it that morning, careful not to disturb anything, hoping that the familiar feel of it would help, maybe remind Sam to keep fighting. He makes sure the beanie's in place too. He knows that Sam hated losing his hair.

"You think he can hang on until Lee gets here?"

Dean threw a glare at him, "Of course he can." _How dare you suggest that he wont?_

Bobby nodded wordlessly and watched Dean slip his hand into Sam's almost skeletal one, weaving their fingers together. He was well beyond caring about people seeing his affection. The only person that mattered was lying unconscious in front of him.

"You can do this, Sammy. Just keep fighting."

Bobby could only just hear the muted words and they left a dull crushing pain in his chest.

God, these boys were breaking his heart.

**~~~~0000~~~~**

Time limped onwards. The nurses took blood and Dean could tell that what they found wasn't good, not just by the hurried transfusions of red and white cells, plasma and platelets, but by the looks on their faces.

Sam was dying. Dean knew it with every fiber of his being. He could feel it. It was like a part of him was slipping away, and he didn't know how to pull it back.

Every day the monitors recorded a few less heartbeats per minute, Sam's blood pressure continued to drop. Bobby had to drag Dean from the room when Catherine suggested that perhaps he should say his goodbyes, which he supposed was a good thing because the nurse was in imminent danger of having her head bashed in.

But really, say goodbye to Sammy? He couldn't do it. He wouldn't do it. He just hoped he wouldn't end up regretting it.

"Hey, Sammy?"

A cart rattled its way past in the hallway, accompanied by soft footsteps, an alarm was beeping in a nearby room along with hurried voices, but Sam stayed silent, except for the hiss-whoosh of the ventilator.

"That healer I was telling you about, the one Bobby called? He'll be here tomorrow, so…" Dean adjusted his mask, closing his eyes against the tears that threatened. This was all wrong. He shouldn't have to be here. Sam shouldn't have to be here. And he shouldn't have to wear a God damned mask just to talk to his brother.

Dean took a deep breath, "Just… don't give up, Sammy, please? Don't leave. I know it's hard but… I can't… After Dad… I need you, okay? You've got to hang on."

He forced out a weak, hollow chuckle, "Here I am, having one of those chick-flick moments you're always jonesing for, and you're sleeping through it."

He meshed a hand into Sam's, "C'mon, Sammy. Wake up."

The room melted into silence and Dean sat there, twisting his fingers to rest on Sam's wrist, taking what little comfort he could from the slow, barely-there beat of his brother's pulse.

He sensed, rather than heard, Bobby's entrance but still didn't turn his gaze away from the unmoving figure on the bed. He couldn't. If he turned his back, Sam might just disappear on him. _Watch out for Sam_.

"Got you a coffee."

Dean found a plastic cup shoved under his nose. He took it gratefully with his free hand. Sam couldn't stand the smell of coffee anymore but then, Sam wasn't awake to smell it so Dean figured it didn't matter.

"No change?" Bobby asked, settling himself down in the chair on the other side of Sam's bed.

Dean took a long swig of his coffee, barely tasting the rich, slightly burnt flavour. He hadn't properly tasted anything for a long time. He ate when Bobby brought him food, only because he had to. He had to be strong.

"The Doc reckons the pneumonia's beginning to clear. He might be able to breathe by himself in a few days." He sighed, "But he's in blast crisis again, and they can't do chemo until he's strong enough."

He was so sick of all these medical terms. Words that were so familiar now, _catheter, blasts, chemo_. He never wanted to have to say them ever again.

Bobby nodded grimly, "Sam's a fighter. If anyone can do it, he can."

Dean chewed on his lower lip for a moment.

"You really think Lee can help?" he asked tentatively, not sure he could handle a negative answer. Hell, he was _positive_ that he couldn't handle a negative answer.

Bobby heaved a sigh, eyes on Sam's prone form. He was wasting away, dying before their eyes and there didn't seem to be anything they could do to stop it. Dean had never felt so helpless, and he could see that Bobby felt the same way.

"Boy, I sure hope so."

**~~~~0000~~~~**

Jessica was beautiful.

There had never been any other way to describe her, and Sam was awestruck and terrified at the same time.

She stood in front of him, wearing the nightdress she had died in, but there was no blood, no singed burns like in his nightmares. She was whole and beautiful and there. Right there before him.

He knew what her being here meant. He knew it and he loved her and, God, he wanted to be with her. It could be so simple, so much easier, but… he didn't want to go with her.

He didn't want to leave Dean alone, especially not when their father's death was still fresh and painful. He'd walked out on Dean too many times; he didn't want to do it again. How would Dean cope if he were gone?

"Jess…" he breathed, and in that moment he realized that the tube in his chest was gone. There was nothing down his throat impairing his ability to talk. He could feel hair brushing over his forehead. The constant metallic chemical taste in his mouth was gone, along with the exhausted nausea. He felt… well, he didn't feel anything and that was a blessing.

This was the light at the end of the tunnel, where his poisoned blood and the agony along with it were gone. No medical miracle, no supernatural cure. Just Jess. The light at the end of the tunnel was death.

"Sam."

It had been forever since he'd heard that voice, so soft and filled with love, and it sounded so good that it almost hurt. Maybe it would have if he could feel anything.

Jess smiled and held out a hand.

For what felt like forever, the only thing Sam had wanted was to get out of that hospital bed, and now he wanted to stay. He wanted Jess and he wanted this numb oblivion, but damn it, he'd take all the pain, the tubes and the drugs because he'd promised Dean. He'd promised to stay, that he wouldn't leave. In turn, Dean had promised that he'd fix this, and Winchesters take promises seriously.

He loved Jess, would never stop loving her, but Jess was gone, had been gone for over a year now, and Dean was here, and had been there, through everything.

But, as had often been the way, Sam had no control over his life, or death, and Jess was here to take him away.

**~~~~0000~~~~**

Lee Stanton was an ordinary-looking man. He was of average height, average build, with thinning hair and glasses, wearing blue jeans and a white button-down shirt. He could easily have been a dentist or an account manager. Something equally ordinary to fit such an ordinary man.

Dean felt hope die.

"Are you serious?" he hissed to Bobby, pulling the older hunter aside. "This guy is meant to be able to cure cancer?"

Bobby shrugged but the older hunter was looking at the supposed healer doubtfully. "He said he could help."

"Look at him!" Dean exclaimed with barely controlled outrage. "He looks like an accountant! He's just wasted our time!"

And Sam didn't have much time left, certainly not enough to track down another healer. This was their last chance.

"Let him try, Dean."

Dean grudgingly backed down and turned his attention to Lee, who was standing quietly at the end of Sam's bed, masked like him and Bobby. Dean couldn't bring himself to care that the man had probably heard their conversation.

"He's very sick," Lee said, his eyes not leaving Sam.

"No shit, Sherlock," Dean growled, ready to move from his corner to forcefully eject this monster of a fraud from his brothers room. What kind of a man exploits other peoples suffering? He'd be asking for money next. How dare he even look at Sam?!

"There's a girl here. He calls her Jess."

Dean froze. He glanced questioningly at Bobby but he shook his head, negative. Didn't tell Lee anything about Jess. The anger and frustration melted into cold fear. Any words he might have spoken stuck in his throat, flooded by the wave of terror.

"He loves her," Lee murmured. He inhaled a deep breath and, before Dean's stunned eyes, the illusion of a plain-collar accountant fell away, replaced by a man with power. Under his glasses, Lee's blue eyes darkened. The air in the room suddenly seemed charged, like some sort of static electricity, and any doubts Dean had had vanished. This man could save his brother. But…

"Does he…" Dean choked slightly, "Does he want to go with her?"

Because, first and foremost, Dean was a big brother. How could he bring Sammy back to this life that he'd never wanted in the first place? Bring him back to all the pain and suffering that went hand in hand with hunting?

How could he be selfish and tear Sammy away from the girl that he loved if Sam just didn't want to come back? No matter how much he wanted to, how much he needed his little brother, he knew that he'd let him go if that was what Sam wanted. It was what big brothers did.

It didn't stop the crushing pain in his chest when Lee turned to him, solemn powerful eyes piercing him.

"Yes, he does."

For a moment, Dean forgot to breathe, couldn't breathe, because how could he breathe if Sammy wasn't? How could he live if Sammy didn't? He always tried to do what was best for his brother, but how could that mean letting him die?

Lee flashed him a smile, real happiness sparkling in his face, and before Dean had time to be outraged, Lee continued. "But he wants to stay with you more."

Dean choked on something that could have been a sob. God, he loved that stubborn kid.

"I told him I'd fix it," he managed, beseechingly.

Lee nodded solemnly and stepped around to the side of Sam's bed, his back to Dean and Bobby.

Dean went to move. He didn't want to let Sam out of his sight, but Bobby's firm hand on his shoulder halted him. Dean turned, a growl already growing.

Bobby shook his head, his face awash with hope, "Give him some space."

Grudgingly, Dean backed down and stared hard at Lee's back.

Lee stood still; one hand slowly moving down the length of Sam's body, then back up until it hovered over Sam's chest. Dean heard a melodious rolling of words. They sounded Latin but he couldn't pick out any translations. They were transfixing, the way they wound together and danced around each other…

Dean almost forgot that there was anyone else in the room, regardless of Bobby's tight grip on his shoulder.

Time lost its meaning. He could have been listening for minutes or hours. Dean shifted so he could see Sam's face but he looked the same as he had before; sick, inches away from death. Hope was bursting inside of him and his mind kept up a desperate litany of _please please please…_

Suddenly, Sam arched off the bed, his eyes flying open for the first time in over a week, gagging around the tube in his throat. Alarms started bleeping.

Dean was moving before his brain had time to understand what was happening, because Sam was dying but now he was awake, when the doctor had said even that was unlikely. Halting the chemo to let Sam recover from the pneumonia had basically been a death sentence, allowing the cancer to build in his blood until it smothered him.

Sam was reaching for the ventilator, trying to tear it from his mouth, eyes wide and terrified. Dean shoved Lee out of the way and grabbed for his hands, pulling them away.

"Sammy, Sammy, hey, calm down, it's okay."

**~~~~0000~~~~**

He couldn't breathe.

He'd been torn away from the comforting numbness, from Jess, and he couldn't breathe.

Sam panicked.

He knew his eyes were open but everything he saw swirled and faded in and out. Where was he? What was going on? He tried to raise his hands to tear away whatever was in his mouth, suffocating him, but immediately someone was holding him down. He fought, ineffectually, until a familiar voice filtered through the rush of blood in his ears.

"Sammy, calm down. You're on a ventilator, just relax. Let it breathe for you. Calm down, Sam, _please_!" 

The please caught his attention. Dean didn't say please. Dean said, _do it, bitch. Now_. So Sam obeyed, forcing himself to relax, and slowly, breathing became easier. He looked around the room, trying to make sense of the disconcerting blurs, until his gaze came to rest on a shape that could only be his brother. He recognized the jacket, the build, and finally, the shape morphed into Dean.

"Did it work? _Did it work_?"

Dean was looking over his shoulder at someone Sam couldn't see, his tone frantic, but the answer, whatever it was, must have been good because when Dean turned back to Sam years had melted off of his face. He let out a deep shuddering breath, gripping Sam's hands even tighter.

"You're okay now," Dean soothed, "You're gonna be okay."

Gathering himself, giving up on trying to make sense of what was happening, Sam nodded, the only response he could make with the tube down his throat. He was okay, he could feel it. Apparently, his older brother was still a superhero.

He wished he could tell Dean to stop crying though.

**TBC…**

**A/N: Okay guys, one more chapter to go. I suppose it's more of an epilogue than a chapter but anyway, stay tuned!**

**Reviews are ALWAYS appreciated and ALWAYS give me warm fuzzies. I'll hand out cookies again ;)**


	10. Epilogue

**Fade**

**A/N: Okay, first of all, I have to say that I am completely blown away by everyone's response to this story. You're all so amazing! A special thanks to everyone who took the time to review!**

**And second, this is the final chapter of this story, although I have been considering a sequel. At the moment, I don't have enough ideas to warrant a full story (suggestions welcome) but do keep an eye out, just in case. I'm already working on another (shorter) story so I hope you guys will check that out too when it's posted.**

**Finally, I'd like to thank everyone for following along on this journey with me. Virtual hugs and cookies for all! Hope you enjoy this final installment.**

**Chapter Ten/Epilogue**

The doctor said it was a miracle, that there was no way the cancer could possibly have just disappeared. She tested twice, at Dean's demand, and a third time for herself, shaking her head in wonder each time.

Dean had tried his best to look puzzled but he really couldn't care less about Dr. Harper's concerns. Sam was alive. Not dying. And it wasn't as if he could tell the stunned woman how it had happened.

When she started ordering tests and Dean overheard her on the phone talking about 'further studies' he and Bobby wasted no time in breaking Sam out of the hospital. He wasn't about to let his little brother become a lab rat.

Sam could barely walk but steadfastly refused to be carried, and didn't want to wait for them to track down a wheelchair – apparently Sam was just as eager to leave as Dean was – so, with an arm slung over Dean's shoulder, still wearing hospital scrubs and Dean's hoodie, barefoot, they had made their escape. Sam fell asleep almost as soon as Dean lowered him into the Impala's backseat. He spared a moment to cover his brother with a blanket before climbing into the drivers seat and setting off on the long drive to Bobby's house.

A month on, Sam's hair had started to grow back, although as much as Dean tried to convince him to leave it as a crew cut, he refused. Dean didn't care; too happy that Sam was still _here_, not throwing up or having poison filtered into him to fight the poison in his blood.

He was still too thin, had spent the first week foggily conscious at best, but now the dark circles under his eyes had faded, along with the sickly gray tinge to his skin.

And today he had reached another milestone; one Dean had feared he'd never see.

Dean was up early, a habit he had gotten into when he had needed every minute of the day for research. He'd be more than happy to pass the early rising and geek-boy routine back to his brother, as soon as Sam was strong enough and he could fully convince himself that Sam would be fine without him watching him all the time.

Dean would never let on how much the sight of his sleeping brother's rising and falling chest reassured him. It was bizarre, he'd spent nearly his whole life seeing Sam breathe naturally but now, after the terrifying time Sam had spent needing a machine to do it for him, it was simply the most amazing, comforting thing he'd ever seen.

And he always made sure not to let Sam catch him watching. That could be… a little awkward.

Sam finally roused, his forehead creasing slightly as he sensed Dean's presence. Today there was no need to hide from Sam, or busy himself pretending he was doing something else. He had plans for this morning.

Sam opened an eye to blearily seek out the alarm clock. He took a moment to focus and then –

"God, Dean, it's not even eight AM. What are you doing up this early?" Apparently, he'd been good at hiding his usual morning hover from Sam.

"Got a surprise for you," Dean grinned, "Come on."

"Thought _I_ was meant to be the early riser," Sam muttered, but dragged himself out of bed anyway. It wasn't strictly true these days, of course. Sam still slept a lot, his body still recovering.

Dean waited, leaning casually against the doorframe as Sam pulled his jeans on, thinking vaguely that maybe they should go shopping for some that actually fit him. All of Sam's jeans were too loose now, but Sam always waved off the suggestion with, "I'm eating now, aren't I? Don't waste your money. I'll fit them soon."

He guessed that Sam didn't want any more reminders. The flash of the pale scar on his chest from the Hickman catheter as Sam pulled a fresh t-shirt, also too big for him, over his head was reminder enough.

Dean waited long enough for Sam to pull on his hoodie, forgoing shoes – Sam didn't need them anyway. Most of the time he sat with Dean on Bobby's couch, watching bad TV, or reading through Bobby's books. He still tired easily and Dean was more than happy for his frail-looking brother to stay indoors, even if he was bored - then dragged the kid out to the front porch.

Sam blinked in the early morning light that sparkled off the windscreens of scrapped cars, still waking up, a process that took a while these days.

"So what's your surprise?" he asked Dean, sleep only slurring his voice a little.

Dean sat down on the step, pulling Sam down next to him – sitting closer than they would have _before_ - then reached into his pocket and revealed –

"More pot, Dean?" Sam raised his eyebrows, "I'm beginning to think you're a secret stoner."

"Only on special occasions."

"I'm not sick anymore."

"So?" Dean grinned cheekily, "Anyway, it's your birthday."

Sam looked stunned, "It is?"

Dean rolled his eyes, "Yes, it is. You really are going senile in your old age."

Sam shoved him lightly – Dean let himself believe that it was intended to be light, not just a sign of how weak Sam still was – and took the joint from Dean's hand. Dean promptly held out a lighter.

Sam lit it obediently and held the smoking joint for a moment, staring out over the salvage yard, "You know, the first time we did this, I was wondering what Dad would have done if he'd walked in on us smoking pot."

Dean got a sudden, hilarious image of John's face and laughed. "No wonder you were giggling so much."

"I don't giggle!" Sam protested.

"Yeah, you do."

"Do not!"

"You do when you're stoned."

"Whatever." Sam passed the joint over to Dean, going serious suddenly, "I missed Dad. Miss Dad. But especially when I was sick."

Damn Sam and his chick-flick moments. But it as the kids birthday, so…

"Yeah, me too." Dean sighed, "He would have figured out how to fix it straight away. He would've known what to do."

"_You_ fixed it, Dean," Sam said sincerely, "You were… awesome."

Dean took a puff, clearing his throat. Uh, awkward much, Sam? "Well, I know that." He tried for a smirk but couldn't really pull it off.

Sam's mouth twitched in a half smile, which turned into a grimace when he ran a hand over his head.

Dean nudged him, "Hey, another month or two and I'll be bugging you about getting a hair cut again." Except he wouldn't. Sam could grow his hair to his knees for all he cared.

"Guess I should give your beanie back." Sam paused, looking down at himself, "And your hoodie."

Dean looked at him. Sam didn't seem too keen to part with it. He remembered the way Sam would huddle up in it when he was feeling really bad, like it was a child's favourite blanket. Even now he seemed to take some comfort from it.

"Keep it," Dean said, making up his mind easily, "Consider it a birthday present."

Sam smiled teasingly, "Wow, Dean, pot and your old hoodie. You really spoil me." But Dean could tell he was pleased.

"Yeah, well, I got something else for you, too." He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small newspaper-wrapped parcel, handing it over to Sam.

"What is it?" Sam asked, frowning at the present.

Dean rolled his eyes, "Open it and find out, Samantha."

Sam slowly unwrapped the newspaper, then sat there for a moment, just looking at the object in his hands. Dean waited nervously, not quite sure how this was going to go over.

Finally Sam breathed out and spoke, "I've never seen this photo before. Where did you…?"

"I called Jess's mother. Asked if she could send it," Dean said, trying to act nonchalant, as if this was all no big deal and had nothing to do with what Lee had said right before he'd taken the poison from Sam's body.

Sam's eyes didn't leave the picture. Jess, smiling out at him, bright and alive. She was dressed casually in jeans and a t-shirt, her long hair falling in waves down her back and over one shoulder, her eyes sparkling at some joke from the past. She leant against a tree, in Autumn, the red-ish gold hue of the season brightening her already stunning features.

Dean wondered if Sam sometimes regretted his decision not to go with her but he couldn't bring himself to ask. Didn't want to put the thought into Sam's head or didn't want to encourage it if it was already there. And really, if Sam did regret it, Dean didn't think he could handle hearing it. Not when he'd be the one to live with the guilt of bringing Sam back.

The thought was pushed from his head quickly, as he suddenly and unexpectedly found himself crushed in a tight hug. After a moment for the shock to wear off, he returned it, wrapping his arms carefully around Sam's slim form, trying not to feel precisely how thin Sam still was.

"Thanks, Dean," Sam breathed.

Dean gave him an extra squeeze, reveling in the beat of Sam's heart against his chest, the breath brushing past his ear. Sam was alive and that was all that mattered.

Finally, Sam pulled back, photo frame still clutched in his hand.

Dean coughed, surreptitiously clearing the lump from his throat. He took another puff of the joint and handed it to Sam.

"Maybe we could get Bobby to make a cake," he suggested innocently.

Sam choked with laughter on the smoke he was inhaling.

"God, can you imagine Bobby in an apron?"

It was Dean's turn to splutter. "And a chef's hat."

Sam regained control of himself and passed the joint on, looking out over the yard, his gaze far away again.

"I didn't think I was going to get another birthday," he said quietly. "I thought it was all over. But you, Dean… you never gave up. How did you do that?"

Dean stared out over the yard as well, remembering the fear, the dull sense of despair that had built in him as time went past, and the desperation that had taken over everything, and answered as honestly as he could, chick-flick moment or not.

"Because I said I was going to save you, Sam. And no way in Hell was I going to give up on you."

The two brothers sat on the step, in a comfortable silence now, passing their joint back and forth until Bobby came out, in his usual morning bad mood, and gruffly told them to get their 'idjit stoner butts' inside for breakfast.

Dean passed his brother in the doorway, leaning in slightly to whisper, "Apron" in his ear, leaving Sam in near-hysterics on the porch.

**~~~~0000~~~~**

"Dean, come on! I can lift a duffel bag!"

Dean couldn't help the grin that spread across his face at the sound of his little brother's complaining. Two weeks since Sam's birthday and he was insisting that he was well enough to hit the road. Dean had acquiesced, easily giving in to Sam, which was why he was now packing up the Impala. Not that he had any intention of finding them a hunt any time soon.

Nope, they were on vacation; a vacation that didn't involve hospitals and hopefully involved bars with good music, hot women, and dumb pool players. Maybe they could stay near a beach or something. Just until Sam got his strength back because, no matter how much the kid protested, he was no where near running at 100 percent and Dean had no intention of letting him hunt until he was.

"What are you grinning about?" Sam asked, exasperated, from his designated seat on Bobby's porch.

"Nothing," Dean answered vaguely, thinking about how great it was to hear Sam bitch at him.

"You boys all packed up?"

Dean turned and Sam swiveled round to look at Bobby as the older man stepped out onto the veranda.

Dean slammed the boot shut, "Yup, all set."

Bobby fingered his beard thoughtfully, "You know you're welcome to stay longer if you want. Give Sam some more time to get his strength back."

Sam huffed. "I'm _fine_," he insisted.

"A few more home-cooked meals wouldn't do any harm," Bobby tempted, "That muck Dean feeds you barely counts as food."

"Hey, nothing wrong with burgers and pie," Dean defended seriously.

"I'm okay, Bobby, but thanks anyway," Sam said, using the railings to pull himself to his feet.

Dean watched him sway for a moment before catching himself, and reconsidered.

"You know, maybe a few more days…"

Sam scowled at him. "_Dean_," he warned.

Dean shrugged, holding up his hands in a placating gesture. "Okay, okay. We'll see you round, Bobby."

Bobby followed Sam over to the Impala, stopping him before he got in and pulling him into a quick hug.

"I'm glad you're okay, kid." He released Sam and watched the two brothers climb into the car.

"Now, go on, get!" he ordered gruffly, "And don't bring any more trouble round my way. I've got enough gray hairs."

Dean smirked, gunning the engine. God, it was good to be able to appreciate his baby's grunt-y rumbling again, now that she wasn't being used as a shuttle to and from the hospital.

He paused, leaning over Sam so he could see Bobby through the open window. He cleared his throat uncomfortably.

"Seriously, Bobby. Thanks… for everything." _For Sam_.

Bobby waved an impatient hand at him, "I told you, don't worry about it."

Dean nodded. Right, enough of that. "See ya, Bobby."

He turned the music up, loud enough for Sam to give a long suffering sigh and roll his eyes at Bobby in a way that clearly said '_See what I have to put up with?_' which made Dean grin, and pressed his foot down.

The Impala took off, eating up the road to their next adventure, with Sam in the passenger seat, right where he belonged.

For now, everything was just fine.

**The End.**

**Hope you all enjoyed! Reviews are always loved. **** Thanks you reading.**


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